


All the Colors in Between

by BeanieBaby



Series: Peter Parker's Home for the Wayward Villain [3]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Daredevil (TV), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Multi, Snark, Team Red, Wade Wilson's mouth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-27 21:49:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 19,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6301660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeanieBaby/pseuds/BeanieBaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The romances and stories that came after. </p><p>
  <strong>(Recommend reading a bit of the first fic before this one. Slight SPOILERS)</strong>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Punisher

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be in the form of drabbles that may not have a very clear timeline like the main fics do, and basically will function as my guilty pleasure and feature all the pairings that (possibly!) could have happened, but due to certain reasons could not be shown in the main fics. I probably won't be referencing any of the relationships here in the main fics. 
> 
> This takes place after Peter Parker's Home for the Wayward Villains. Can sort of be read by itself, but not recommended.
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy and drop me a comment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just going to call Bucky Bucky from now on. It's just easier to write when switching POVs, which will happen quite a bit. The other guys still call him Nicolai sometimes.
> 
> And also, this is the TV Matt Murdock, not the comic verse.

Peter meets the infamous Punisher at Grandma Nelson's restaurant over a piece of peach pie. 

It’s an accident really. 

He likes Foggy, and he likes Foggy’s grandmother, but Grandma Nelson's cheesecake? Now that he loves. 

Peter is just dropping by for a piece of his guilty pleasure when he spots Matt "Daredevil" Murdock sitting in a corner booth with someone other than Foggy or Karen. Matt's body language is relaxed, but a bit resigned when he slides a manila folder across the table. Peter ends his chat with Foggy at the bar and wanders over to say hello. 

Matt Murdock actually jumps, somehow so wrapped in his conversation with the mysterious stranger that he doesn't even notice Peter entering the restaurant. They both glance up at the young man, Matt with his mouth parted in an almost guilty 'O', and his friend scowling up at Peter as he hunched over a slice of Grandma Nelson's famous peach pie. 

Underneath the bulky leather jacket, Peter catches a flash of a bleached skull on the man's shirt. 

"Ah, Peter." Matt says awkwardly. "How are you?" 

"Great, just dropping by for food. Who's this guy?" Peter grins down at them as the man flips open the folder Matt had slid over to him. 

Murdock actually looks a little pained when he introduces, "this is Frank, Frank Castle. He's an...acquaintance. Frank, this is Peter Parker, the nice young man I told you about before. Peter, we're just about done, so-" 

"Wait, Frank Castle as in The Punisher Frank, or random civilian Frank?" Peter squints down at Matt's carefully expressionless face. Frank takes another casual bite of his pie and shakes a stack of photos out of a plastic evidence bag. Matt sighs, annoyed as he says, "Frank, can't you wait a few minutes before tearing into your present?" 

Frank ignores him and spreads the pictures. Peter glances down and feels his jaw drop. 

"You take photos of the thugs you kill as souvenirs?" Peter asks incredulously, "is that a picture of a severed hand under that pile of corpse shots?"

Frank takes a sip of his tea before rolling his eyes. "No, the police took those, ya little idiot. I didn't kill these pieces of garbage. This is the aftermath of a Mexican cartel gang war. I got 'em off of Red here after he lost a game of poker to me." 

"I thought you said you guys weren't friends, Matt." Peter grins. 

"We're not." Daredevil says firmly. "Frank and I do not have the same ideals when it comes to keeping Hell's Kitchen safe." 

"Well, I get the job done, don't I? Not to mention, I saved your fucking ass a few times."

"Yes, and every time bodies end up in the morgue when you're in a generous 'helping' mood." 

Peter drops down opposite the two bickering men, grinning. 

"Pshh, you're just mad you lost." 

"Gloating about winning a poker game against a blind man, Frank?” Matt cocks his head to the side, shades flashing in the afternoon sun.

"You just keep milking that disability thing, Murdock. Works wonders on the ladies, but you need to try harder with me." Frank drains his cup with a grimace, and slams the china down on the table, making Peter jump.

"Oh yeah? Why's that?" Matt raises his eyebrow, sipping calmly at his coffee. 

"Because I know you're not just some helpless disabled altar boy, Red. Gave me a fucking concussion the first time we crossed paths." He rubs a hand over his stubbled jaw at the memory. "Couldn't even tell you were blind as a bat when you punched me in the face." 

"Oh stop it, Castle. You're making me blush." 

"It's like watching an old married couple," Peter calls out to Foggy, laughing. 

"Tell me about it," Foggy grins, balancing three beers and an orange soda on a tray. He settles down at their table after ruffling Matt's hair with a fond hand. "Every Thursday afternoon. Never fails to show up, the both of them, always bickering like third-grade girls at the booth in the corner. Frank with his black tea and slice o’ peach pie, and Matty, sipping Gram’s crappy coffee like a prim and proper lady." 

"I like it better when your grandmother is runnin' this shit joint." Frank mutters, ignoring Foggy's attempt at a friendly bro fist bump. Matt laughs and grabs a beer. 

"Hey, you're a minor, kid. Grubby lil' paws off the booze." The Punisher slaps the back of Peter's hand when the teenager reaches for a beer without thinking. Foggy shoves the insultingly cheerful orange soda toward him. 

"Oh, come on! I'm 20!" Peter whines, rubbing at the sting and scowling at the three smug faces across the table from him. 

"Yeah, so basically a kid.” Matt says with an innocent smile, elbowing Frank in the side. Then he sighs and says sadly, “that seems to be the only thing we'll ever agree upon, Frank."

Frank rolls his eyes and mutters, “drama queen.” 

“Jackass,” Matt returns sweetly without missing a beat. 

“Well, I’ve gotta head out, drug lords to decapitate, mafia members to drown in a vat of acid, etc. See you around the rooftops, Red.” Frank says when he drains his beer. The Punisher stands, throwing his leather jacket over one broad shoulder. "Kid," he inclines his head toward Peter before heading toward the door after dropping a wad of cash on the table. Foggy shrugs and mouths “at least the bastard’s a generous tipper” to Peter. 

“Frank, no more killing please. I’m serious this time.” Matt calls out after him. 

“Yup, like the forty-three other times you’ve preached that gospel bullshit before, Saint Matthew. I got you, loud and clear. Catch you next week, Red.” He gives a casual two-finger salute without turning back. 

“Wow.” Peter says into the ensuing silence. 

“You don’t want to get involved with the likes of him, Peter.” Matt says firmly, his lips drawn down in a stern frown. 

“Forty-three times? Are you guys secretly together? This whole stable lunch date thing is weirdly domestic,” Peter points out suspiciously, flipping through the menu for Grandma Nelson’s famous cheesecake. “Kinda like Professor X and Magneto’s chess sessions, come to think of it.” 

"No, we're not. Peter, I'm serious." Matt's still frowning. 

Peter chews on his straw before taking a sip of the orange soda Foggy had gotten him (not a kid, Nelson!). “I know, I know. Don't worry so much. I’m probably never gonna see the guy again, Matt.” 

 

* * *

 

Three days later, Peter opens his front door to find Frank Castle soaking wet and dripping blood onto his ugly welcome mat. The side of his face is badly burned and Peter spies bullet holes in his jacket, jeans and basically everywhere in sight. He’s got a gun clutched loosely in one hand, but Peter thinks the guy probably doesn’t have enough energy in his body to pull the trigger. 

"Oh my God. I got you! I got you, you're safe!" Peter shouts as Frank lists dangerously sideways on his front porch, the weapon clacking to the ground. He manages to drag the nearly unconscious man onto the living room couch before Frank's legs finally give up working all together. He's the only one home at the moment, and Peter has no idea what to do. 

"Don't you dare call Matt fucking girl scout Murdock." Frank squeezes out, one wet hand catching the boy's wrist and making Peter jump. 

"What am I supposed to do then?! You need the hospital! Oh God, you're like a punctured bean bag right now." He shouts, trying to ignore the thick smear of blood Frank leaves on his skin.

"No hospitals either. I just...just stitch me up...and take out the...shrapnel in my arm. I'll be fine…nothing broken…this time..." He grunts, jerking a hand at his blood soaked shirt. 

" _Jesus, you're so diehard, you pig-headed thug bully moron._ " Peter mutters under his breath, nearly slipping on the wet blood in his hurry to fetch the first-aid kit. "Stain is gonna be a bitch to remove from the cushions." 

 

* * *

 

It takes him an hour to finally stitch the Punisher back together, and stop the bleeding. Peter thinks he's probably done a pretty good job, since Frank hasn't passed out yet (holding on with sheer stubbornness), and that he's still got a healthy (probably a bit of exaggeration there since Frank's the color of spoiled milk) amount of blood left in his body. 

“Thanks.” Frank says, eyes averted and voice soft for once. “You’re a good kid.” 

Peter sets the bloodied roll of gauze on the coffee table and finally allows his body to relax. “I don’t know about that, but at least you’re no longer spilling precious lifeblood onto my extremely cheap carpet, so yay for that.” 

“Sorry about the carpet.” He mutters. 

“Oh, don’t worry about it. It’s seen worse.” Peter says distractedly, gesturing at one of the curious dogs who'd wandered over to Frank's knee. "Bucky's puppies were pretty wild before they got properly potty-trained." 

"Hey, don't talk about 'em like that... Dogs...they're loyal...you give them a little affection and they...they give you their entire heart." The bleeding man on his couch reaches out a hand and clicks his tongue. Peter is surprised to see Gawain trot over and press his nose into Frank's palm. 

"Hey, boy." His lopsided smile is smeared red with blood when he scratches behind Gawain's ear. 

"Alright, big guy. Time for your happy pills." Peter holds up his hands, painkillers in one and a glass of water in the other. 

"I don't need 'em.” He grunts. 

"You're barely keeping your eyes open as it is, Frank." Peter sighs, frustrated with the man's sheer stubborn will to push everyone away. The Punisher ignores him and keeps running gun-calloused fingers through Gawain's fur. 

An idea occurs to him suddenly. Peter turns and blasts a loud whistle at the front door. 

Frank looks up when the first dog comes wriggling through the doggy door, tail wagging and tongue lolling. 

"Hey, Lance. This is our new buddy Frank. He's hurt, and I kinda need you guys to keep an eye on him, alright? Make sure the big bloodthirsty lug is safe, so he can take a much-needed nap." He grins down at the German Shepherd Bucky had named Lancelot. Lance barks happily up at him, tail wagging harder. 

Frank smirks tiredly, "Cute, kid. Not gonna work. I ain't bitin'." 

The dogs jump up on the couch and curl protectively around him like a furry blanket, and as much as Frank bitch and complain, he's smiling slightly (delirious from the blood loss most likely) as he tickles Percy under the chin. 

"Let's do this again," Peter says, trying to keep his smile hidden, his palms open. "Time for your happy pills, big guy." 

Frank eyes him for a long second before heaving a sigh and muttering something unintelligible under his breath. Peter just keeps grinning. 

"Fine, you insistent little shit." He finally caves, reaching for the pain medication in Peter's hand. 

As he expects, Frank swallows the pills dry. 

“No water. Tough badass through and through, huh?” Peter mutters to himself as the man finally closes his eyes and allows himself to relax, one hand on Percy's head. He grabs a blanket and gently drapes it over the man’s legs before settling down on the other end of the couch with a book. 

Playing Switzerland between the hero community and the villains, and stitching up violent bleeding sociopaths with a crippling weakness for canine cuteness. 

Apparently this is Peter Parker's life now.

 

* * *

 

He's on chapter six when the front door clicks open and Bucky wanders in with Bob and Lester, their arms full of grocery bags. 

"He's bleeding all over the carpet." Bucky tells him, dropping down next to Peter and tossing him an apple from their bag. The dogs glance briefly over at their true master, but when Frank winces and shifts slightly in his sleep, they tuck their bodies up against him again. 

"Yup." Peter replies, not glancing up from his book. 

"Neat stitches, kid." Lester approves as he wanders over for a quick glance at their unconscious visitor. "Oh, and he's bleeding on the carpet." 

"Thanks, Bucky already told me, Les." Peter says absently, biting into the fruit. 

"He's on the news right now." Lester prods at Frank's less bruised cheek before Peter can stop him. The man frowns but does not wake.

"Quit it!" Peter smacks the bald marksman with his hardcover novel, trying to shoo him away. “What do you mean he’s on the news right now?" 

"We saw the report on a TV at the gas station." Bucky says, his voice pitched low as he flicks out a pocket knife and slices off a sliver of apple. “The Punisher took out an entire Mexican cartel group tonight. Blew up a good chunk of Hell’s Kitchen." 

"Oh, damn." Peter's jaw drops. 

“Yeah, homicidal asshole." Lester says. "But, I'm grudgingly impressed he made it out here without dying along the way." 

"My dogs like him," Bucky points out. 

"Your dogs like anything that breathes," Lester rebuffs. "They're useless as guard dogs." 

Bucky shrugs, "they don't seem to like you very much." Lester scowls and tosses an orange peel at him. 

“Frank likes the dogs back. I think probably more than he will like any of us." Peter says, peering at the sleeping man. "The most important thing is, he's severely injured right now and needs to heal. Nobody poke at him. I'll call Matt tomorrow morning." 

"Tomorrow? Shit, Steve's coming over in an hour." Bucky mutters, running a hand through his hair and bouncing his apple core casually against the bullseye tattoo on Lester's forehead. "Change of plans. I'll think of something else to distract him." 

"Thanks." Peter tells him gratefully. Bucky grunts, gathers his loose hair in a messy tail and jumps over the back of the couch with feline grace, dodging Lester's half-ass attempt to hit him with a throw pillow.

"Alright, go back to your book, kid. Bob says dinner's in an hour." Bucky calls over his shoulder before slipping out the door with his black hoodie. 

"Remember the good ol' times when none of us were rubbing dicks with superheroes? I miss that." Lester says into the silence.

"You're one to talk. Bffs with Hawkeye, remember?" Peter tosses his apple core at the back of Lester's head. 

He misses. 

Peter blames the lack of a bullseye on the back. 

 

 

 


	2. Punisher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come on, man…” Peter groans when he comes downstairs during the middle of the night and finds Frank attempting to sneak out of the house with a duffle bag full of Lester’s guns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter of this drabble-like sequel. Typical night for the crime-fighting Team Red. Except for the fact that Venom is black.

“Come on, man…” Peter groans when he comes downstairs during the middle of the night and finds Frank attempting to sneak out of the house with a duffle bag full of Lester’s guns.

“Why are you not stopping him? He’s gonna get himself killed.” He hisses at Bullseye, who’s reclining against the second floor banister and watching the injured man shuffle slowly toward the door. Lester shrugs casually, his eyes glimmering in the dark as he smirks.

“Frank, you are in no shape whatsoever to attempt whatever it is that you think you need to do before sunrise.” Peter says seriously, scaling the stairs in a few steps and jumping between the Punisher and freedom.

“Get out of the way or I will shoot you, kid.” Frank growls.

“No, you won’t,” Peter glares back. Castle curses softly under his breath, shoulders slumping.

“You’re just like Red, always poking your nose into other people’s business…” Frank mutters. Peter doesn’t comment on the fact that _he_ had been the one to show up on his steps, because Frank is listing dangerously to the side, one hand going to his waist where the worst of the wounds are.

“Lester, I need your help! Get your bald ass down here, NOW.” Peter tries to keep his voice down, but he’s definitely not going to be able to support the weight of both Frank and his heavy-ass bag of guns.

With the other man’s help, they drag the unwilling Punisher over to the couch. Peter stifles his yawn and drops down opposite of the scowling man.

“Alright, tell me what you were going to do.” He says, face resigned.

 

* * *

 

“Wade, pst. Wake up.” Peter pokes the lumpy form of the ex-merc. Wade snorts out loud and rolls over onto his face, leaving the bare expanse of scars and warm muscle facing Peter. “Wade.” He pokes at his boyfriend’s boxer-clad backside with an index finger. Wade reaches back and scratches absently at the spot, still snoring evenly.

“For the love of God,” Peter groans under his breath and hops atop the man’s warm back. “Wade Wilson, wake up. I need your help.”

He doesn’t expect Wade to roll them over, his hot heavy weight pressing Peter down into the soft sheets. Wade slings an arm over Peter’s face, his nose finding the crook between Peter’s neck and shoulder.

“This cannot be happening to me right now,” Peter says to the ceiling.

“What can’t be happening to you now?” Wade’s sleep-heavy voice asks in Peter’s ear. He feels a blush rising beneath his skin at the slow gravelly tone.

“You asshole.” Peter mutters instead, pinching Wade’s butt.

“Hmm… Daddy’ll show you a good time tomorrow morning…I just need a couple’o hours, s’all...” Wade murmurs absently, arms tightening around Peter’s waist.

“Frank needs our help. There’s a multiple shipment of drugs coming in from the harbor and we need to stop them before it reaches the Russians.” Peter explains, willing himself not to relax into the warm embrace.

There’s a short pause. Then, Wade lifts his head and squints at Peter’s face in the dark.

“What the fuck, baby boy? You never wanna cuddle, and the first time you crawl into my bed it’s to ask me to help you with another man? Didn’t he just get rid of a Mexican cartel tonight?” He asks incredulously as he reaches out to turn on the bedside lamp. Peter arches an eyebrow.

“You know I could always ask Bucky,” He points out in a flat voice.

“Yeah?” Wade smirks, leaning forward just to make Peter blush at the close proximity. “Too bad he’s not back yet. it’s way past his curfew, Mom. You know, you should do something about that.”

“I’m not his mother, and Steve would never take advantage of him like that, you sick sick man. They’re not like that. Come on Wade. Frank’s probably trying to crawl toward the door again.” He wriggles his way out from underneath Wade, “I asked Lester to sit on him if he tries to escape.”

“Where is this place?” Wade asks, reluctantly allowing Peter to drag him out of bed. Peter ignores the gun that drops out from under Wade’s pillow, clattering to the ground. Wade kicks it under the bed.

“Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Fuck. That’s a long drive.”

“Yes, which is why we have to hurry. The shipment arrives in less than two hours.” Peter reaches back and pulls Wade into a kiss, much to the man’s surprise. “I’ll make it up to you when we get back.”

“The sexual kind?” His boyfriend asks eagerly. Peter rolls his eyes and smacks him upside the head with the Deadpool mask.

“Get dressed. _Now._ ”

 

* * *

 

“Peteyyyyy, the suit your dad designed's ridden up my butt-crack again. Yup, it's way up in there, just getting sucked in like Alice down the rabbit hole. I think he did this on purpose.” Wade complains for the fifth time into his mic as he squirms a few feet away. Peter grabs Frank’s gun before the man can even lift it from his lap.

“Don’t. You’re just going to waste the bullets and bring unwanted attention.” He says without looking away from his night-vision scopes. “I brought you a thermos of fresh coffee, donuts, and a thick blanket, so just calm down, okay? We got this, Frank.”

“I’m not some retired grandpa on a weekend fishing trip,” Frank growls back, flinging the Cosmopolitan magazine Peter had brought along for him to the ground with a resounding thwack.

Peter twists around slowly, “You’re going to rip all your stitches. Do I need to web you to the ground? Because you bet your ass I will. Drink your coffee, eat your donuts, and read the stupid magazine.”

He turns back to the harbor, “Lester, do you have eyes on the Russians?”

A few rooftops away, Lester grunts a confirmation.

“Alright, as soon as we spot the cargo ship and the opposite party, you’re green to go, Wade. And Lester, remember to aim for the kneecaps.”

“I think I see it.” Lester says, ignoring Peter’s nagging.

“Wade, you ready?” Peter carefully places his scopes back into his backpack. He’d stolen them from Tony’s lab a few weeks back and his stepdad had yet to notice.

“Yup.”

Peter turns back to Frank and his coffee thermos. The Punisher glares back, his face covered in black and blue bruises, a purple and pink My Little Pony blanket Scott had left over at their place by accident draped over his broad shoulder.

Peter smiles weakly as Venom covers his face. “Stay?”

Frank growls.

 

* * *

 

The fight is…surprisingly easy. Wade’s new uniform upgrades included a bulletproof material that, according to him, took the fun away from everything, and Peter, well, Peter’s recently come up with a few new trick battling the holograms in the tower’s virtual testing rooms. And with the added combination of Lester shooting out everybody’s kneecaps from above, the Russian mobsters are getting their asses handed back to them.

“We have another hostile joining the fight. On your left, kid.” Lester tells him, and Peter barely has time to shield his face before the newcomer smacks his forearms with a metal nunchaku. Hard.

“Oww, what the-” He dodges the kick aimed at his abdomen and rolls out of the way. Wade is busy wrestling a man the size of a small ice cream truck on the other side of the ship.

“Ma- I mean, Daredevil?” Peter asks, doing a double-take when the familiar figure freezes. “It’s me, Spider-Man!”

“Spider-Man? What are you doing here?” Matt recovers quickly, kicking one of the men in the knee and sending him sprawling with a well-aimed punch. Peter webs the man into the growing pile of unconscious mafia gang members.

“The Punisher showed up on my doorstep today. He was hurt pretty bad,” He admits, noticing the way Matt’s punches immediately became heavier. “I caught him sneaking out during the middle of the night. He wouldn’t listen to reason, so I thought I’d help him with whatever he wanted to do before he kills himself trying.”

“Typical,” Matt says, sounding annoyed. “Where is he?”

Peter pauses long enough to point to the rooftop where he’d left Frank, “Up there, I brought coffee and donuts to distract him.”

Matt laughs, “Nice try, but it’s going to take more than that to keep him still.”

“Yeah, I know.” Peter sighs, frustrated. He cocks his head to the side and listens for a second, “Lester says hi, and that you should thank him for not shooting you in the hea- come on Les, be nice.”

Matt snorts, “Tell him-”

“You have an incoming call from Tony Stark.” Ultron’s bored voice interrupts their conversation. Peter grunts, flipping atop one of the giant cargo containers.

“Why’s he calling at three in the morning?” He wonders out loud when Ultron connects the call.

“Pete.”

“Tony…what’s going on?” He feigns a yawn.

“Cut the act, kid. I know you’re not in bed.” Tony says.

“What do you mean?” Peter asks, shooting a glob of webbing at the closest gang member to prevent him from screaming as blood pours down his shattered knee.

“You’re in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Uh…”

“Those night-vision scopes were for the Falcon, Pete. They have an internal GPS tracking system. I'm looking at your coordinates right now."

“…"

“I’ll return them tomorrow morning, Dad.” He sighs.

“Be careful, okay? I don’t want to see a scratch on you or the scopes when you drop by on Monday. And tell Murdock if he involves you in his vigilante stuff again, I will pull Stark Industries' sponsorship from his firm.”

“Tony, stop trying to keep me off the streets. This has nothing to do with Matt.” Peter argues, diving back into the fight. “Oh, those rocket boots we talked about before, do you by any chance-”

“ _Good night_ , Peter.” 


	3. Punisher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's standing with his back to Peter, the smooth planes of muscles flexing and shifting underneath his skin as he lifts the damp blue shirt up over his head. Peter’s steps falter when he sees the angry red scratches along his shoulder blades and lower back. There’s a fading purple bruise in the shape of a handprint on one thick bicep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to use this piece as a collection of different story arcs. There will be Spideypool, Stucky, Hawksilver, Frostiron friendship, etc. The chapter titles will tell you when the arcs end and when the next might begin. They all take place after PPHFTWV.

“Anyone want a donut?” Peter asks the two men seated next to him. The sun still hasn’t risen yet, but the sky has turned from a deep inky black to a soft warm purple. Peter dangles his legs over the side of the building and leans his weight into Wade’s shoulder.

A few feet away, Matt is speaking quietly with Frank, their heads bent close together. Peter can’t help but hear snippets of their conversation.

“Frank, you can’t just do things like this and keep me in the dark,” Matt’s disapproving voice says.

“Why the fuck should I tell you?” Frank bites back.

Matt sighs and there’s the sound of the tell-tale rustling of him taking a seat on the rooftop next to the Punisher. “Well, considering that you’ve moved two thirds of your ammunition and weapons into my guest room, and Napoleon’s there 24/7, seven days a week, and I haven’t been able to bring anyone back to my apartment for three months due to the fact that your half-dead corpse end up crashed on the couch in the morning more often than not. I think I deserve at least a voice message of whatever the hell plan you’ve come up with in another attempt to kill yourself.”

“Will you stop calling him Napoleon, Jesus.” Frank groans, palming his face.

“No,” Matt says calmly, “I feed him, I walk him, and I pick up his excrements. I’m allowed to name the dog whatever I want to.”

“What was his name before?” Peter can’t help but interrupt, twisting around to peer at them curiously.

“Dog, Frank named him ‘Dog’,” Matt sighs, sounding pained.

“Figures.” Peter shrugs, dodging out of the way when Frank throws the empty thermos at his head.

“I know why you did what you did last night, Frank. I know what day it is today-” Matt begins gently, but Frank interrupts him angrily.

“You don’t know shit, Murdock.” He snarls, suddenly filled with blind rage. Lester and Wade both tense next to Peter, their expressions annoyed.

“Calm the fuck down, asshole,” Wade snaps. Lester grunts in agreement. He’s got that familiar nasty glint in his eyes just before blood spills.

“Guys, why don’t you head back and get some sleep. Check on Bucky and see if he’s back yet.” Peter intervenes before the shouting match can become physical.

“I’ll stay and help Matt,” He tells Wade, pressing a reassuring kiss to the corner of the man’s mouth. “Go. You’re being grumpy. Get Bob to make you guys something nice for breakfast.”

Peter turns back to Matt and Frank, “what’s today?”

“Don’t you dare-”

“Today’s Frank’s daughter's sixteenth birthday,” Matt says quietly, shaking his head, “Lisa would be sixteen if she were still alive.”

“Stop talking about her like you know her. I’ve buried the past with the house, Murdock.” Frank glares at Matt as if he wants to physically strike the other man. Matt ignores him.

“What happened to the house?” Peter drops down to sit crosslegged in front of them.

“Frank burned his own house down, along with the last remaining memories of his family,” Matt explains. Peter glances at the Punisher. Frank’s face has turned into a smooth expressionless mask.

“You can’t bury them,” Peter blurts out without thinking, surprising even himself at how loud his indignation is, “they deserve better than that.”

Frank blinks at him, stunned.

“We’ve all lost people, people we love. Matt’s dad, my parents, Uncle Ben and Aunt May, your wife and kids. I get it, the past hurts, thinking about them hurts, but it’s a good kind of hurt.” Frank still hasn’t looked away from him, so Peter continues, heart pounding in his throat, “because they’re not gone. Our loved ones, they’re a part of us, they live on inside us, they give us strength, and they remind us that there’s still something worth living for.” The indignation has turned into full-on anger as he glares fiercely at the Punisher, “it’s only when you try to forget them, try to bury them forever that they truly cease to exist, Frank.”

Peter stands with a small wince, knees popping. Frank averts his gaze, jaw tensing as if he expects Peter to yell at him some more. He sighs, a swell of pity rising in his chest. They’ve all lost so much.

“What do you say? Lisa deserves a proper birthday party. You only turn sixteen once.” Peter extends a hand to Frank. “I know a flower shop that’s open 24/7.”

There’s a moment of heavy silence.

“Sunflowers, Lisa loved sunflowers,” Frank murmurs quietly, his head bowed. Beside him, Matt reaches over and pat Frank on the shoulder.

“Thank you,” Matt says, and Peter doesn’t know if he’s taking to Frank or him.

Peter smiles encouragingly, “Give Matt two minutes to change out of his suit and if we hurry, we can get there in time to watch the sunrise with her.”

 

* * *

 

They get to the cemetery before the sun rises. Foggy and Karen are there to greet them when they step out of Peter’s beat-up old truck, a carefully wrapped cake in one of Foggy’s hands and a dog leash in the other. Peter spots who he assumes is Napoleon, an excited pitbull puppy with a glittery pink collar around its neck.

“Oh, Frank,” Karen rushes up to him and throws her arms around Frank’s shoulders. He buries his face into her smooth blond hair and lets her cling to him. Peter waves at Foggy and helps Matt out of the car. Without his stick, Matt has to hold onto Peter’s arm as the little group make their way slowly toward the hilltop where the Castle family are buried.

Napoleon yips happily as they all take their seats around the headstones. He licks frantically at Frank’s bruised face before Matt clicks his tongue to attract Napoleon’s attention.

“Little traitor,” Frank says without much heat, his mouth curling up in an almost smile as he tugs on Napoleon’s wagging tail. Matt shakes his head, hugging the puppy to him and letting him lick at his fingertips.

“I don’t want Napoleon to aggravate your injuries, Frank.”

“We should name him Godzilla,” Frank says suddenly. “Frank Junior would’ve loved that.”

Matt laughs softly, delighted. “Maybe we will,” He agrees, scratching the puppy behind one ear. “Do you like Godzilla better or Napoleon? How about Charles III?” Matt asks the dog.

The sun peeks over the horizon just as they finish lighting the candles and pouring everyone a glass of sparkling champagne. A soft breeze eventually blows out all the candles, and Karen and Foggy both break into applause when all the flames go out.

“Happy sixteenth birthday, Lisa!” Everyone shouts and drains their glass in one go.

“Come on, just one bite, Frank.” Foggy wiggles the fork enticingly in front of the scowling man’s face after they cut the cake. “My gram got up and made it herself when Matt called.”

“You woke up an eighty-year-old lady in the middle of the night just to make a birthday cake for my dead daughter?” Frank elbows Matt in the ribs.

Matt shrugs innocently. “I wanted Lisa to have the best.”

“Gram didn’t mind, but she did tell me you had to try it, or she’s gonna disown me and never allow me to set foot in her house ever again.” Foggy says seriously. Frank rolls his eyes and leans forward to eat the wedge of cake on Foggy’s fork after a pause.

"What do ya say? Bros?" Foggy grins, raising his hand for a fist bump. Frank eyes him for a long moment before reluctantly pressing his bloodied knuckles against Foggy's.

"Oh my God, Matt! Dude, did you see that? It totally happened!" Foggy shrieks. Frank scowls and shoves him away.

Matt cocks his head to the side, a smile playing about his lips. "I'm blind, Foggy." He reminds his best friend gently. Foggy shoots the Punisher a shit-eating grin and drops his arm around Frank's shoulder.

"There's no denying it now, you're officially an avacado. Welcome to the family, Castle." He says, beaming happily before turning to Lisa’s headstone, “No need to worry about your old man, Lisa. Nelson and Murdock’ll take good care of him.”

Karen digs her stiletto into his foot.

“Oww, and Page. Nelson, Murdock and Page,” He turns to grin at Peter, “And Parker. We need to come up with an acronym, because this is way too long.”

Frank shakes his head, but Peter catches a brief glimpse of a genuine smile on his bruised face.

“Foggy’s right, Frank. You’re not alone, we’re all here for you,” Matt pats him on the shoulder when they've eaten the cake and everyone finishes saying their goodbyes to the Castles. “We’ll visit, every year. As long as you’ll have us.”

Frank doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t brush Matt’s hand off either. Peter offers the blind man his elbow, leaving Frank to have a private moment with his family.

The Punisher gently lays the jar of fresh sunflowers by Lisa’s headstone and crouches down to brush away some of the dirt.

“Happy birthday, baby girl.” He whispers softly. Frank leans down and presses a kiss to the headstone before getting slowly to his feet. Peter smiles and squeezes Matt’s hand.

“You know, it’s at times like these that I’m reminded that there’s still hope for humanity,” Matt tells him softly, squeezing back. “Thank you, Peter.”

 

* * *

 

He sees it by accident, really.

Peter’s almost asleep with exhaustion when he gets back to the house around mid-morning. Apparently Bucky had arrived a few minutes before. He's passing by the man's room when he happens to glance at the half-open door.

Bucky's standing with his back to Peter, the smooth planes of muscles flexing and shifting underneath his skin as he lifts the damp blue shirt up over his head. Peter’s steps falter when he sees the angry red scratches along his shoulder blades and lower back. There’s a fading purple bruise in the shape of a handprint on one thick bicep.

“Fuck,” Bucky hisses under his breath, rolling his neck and kicking his loose sweatpants away.

Peter runs for the safety of his own room before the man can spot him.

" _Shit, Steve's coming over in an hour. Change of plans. I'll think of something else to distract him_.” He recalls Bucky saying last night before heading out.

The man had been out the entire night.

Peter swallows and drops his head against his bedroom wall with a resounding thud.

Holy shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter thinks Bucky and Steve ahem-ed.


	4. Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t what me, Rogers. Your boy just got laid last night.” Sam crows gleefully, dragging Scott toward the exit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha, the plot thickens! Not really. :P

Peter doesn’t get around to returning the Falcon’s night-vision scopes until early afternoon. Like stray cats, the guys in his house are nowhere to be seen, and Peter is actually pretty grateful for the quiet. His head is still a bit groggy when he tugs on his jacket and yanks the front door open. Peter blinks at the sight of Scott Lang, dressed in a white shirt, beige jacket and faded blue jeans, one hand still hovering over the doorbell.

“Hi,” Scott says, his sunny smile replaced with a frown for once.

“What’s wrong?” Peter asks immediately, pulling his car keys out his mouth.

“Uh, I don’t know how to break this to you lightly, but-”

Peter takes in Scott’s rumpled appearance and the smear of engine grease on the left side of his neck. “Oh God, did my dad seduce you into his bed?”

“No, Peter…” The older man says, clearly disturbed by the reaction, “what I was going to say was that Cap and Sam got arrested last night. Sam called me because apparently, and I quote this when I say ‘it’s not the first time Steve’s been arrested, and Stark has refused to come bail them out again.’ We gotta get them out before the 24 hours are up.”

“Wait, what? I thought Cap was out with Bucky last night,” He says, bewildered.

Scott shrugs, “I dunno, I was working on the design for a new repulsor prototype with Mr. Stark.”

“Jesus, Scott,” Peter slams the door behind himself and follows Scott down the steps of the porch. “First rule of working with Tony is: Don’t call him Mr. Stark. Do you know what my dad used to do to the fresh doe-eyed interns who call him that?”

“What?” Scott asks curiously.

Peter sticks his thumb repeatedly through the metal loop holding his keys together and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at the engineer.

“Oh.” Scott’s face turns the color of curdled milk.

“Yup.” He pockets his keys and turns to see a familiar white van parked at the end of the driveway. Luis pops his head out of the passenger seat and waves cheerfully.

“Hey guys,” Peter slaps the three men high-fives and slips into the van. He turns to Scott, who still looks spooked. “Did Sam tell you what they need? Is it a basic Cash Bond process or what?”

“Huh?” Scott asks, still dazed.

“What’s with him?” Dave asks, peering at them from the rear-view mirror.

“Nothing,” Peter says reassuringly, “I’m gonna call us a lawyer just in case. Oh, and can you drive by the Avengers Tower afterward? Gotta drop off some stuff.”

“Sure, little man,” Dave grins at him.

“Oh God,” Scott says in a low horrified voice. Kurt shoots him a puzzled look.

Peter pats Scott sympathetically on the knee.

 

* * *

 

Matt Murdock gets them out of jail in less than 30 minutes.

“Be good Gene. You too, Ramon,” Steve claps a huge mountain of a man on his broad tattooed shoulders before turning to speak to someone further along inside the cell, “your kids need you in their lives, Jose. Keep your nose clean, brother. I’ll see you on the outside.”

“I will, Cap,” The scary-looking Latino man thumps a fist into his bare chest and nods at the blond Captain America.

“Was that a gang sign?” Peter whispers to Sam, who rolls his eyes so hard it looks like it’s going to stick that way permanently.

“This is the seventh time he’s got arrested,” Sam tells them with a long-suffering exhale.

Scott raises an eyebrow as he turns to stare at Captain America. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Honestly, I think he does this periodically just so he can come preach his gospel of hope to the lost causes.”

“What was it this time?” Matt asks curiously.

“He got into a bar fight with those two,” Sam jerks his chin toward the two muscular men still siting inside the holdings. They closely resemble olive-colored boulders with no neck. "I tried to break it up, got arrested too.”

Steve shakes a couple of more hands, including the police officers on duty, before coming to a stop in front of them. He smiles down at Peter’s incredulous face and artfully ignores Sam’s unimpressed scowl.

“Peter, please don’t tell Buck,” Steve says in his most sincere Captain America voice, “he already worries too much as it is.”

“Right…” Peter exchanges a dubious glance with Scott before opening his mouth to ask, “So you guys didn’t hang out yesterday?”

Steve frowns, “No, he texted and said he had a last-minute change of plans, so I ended up going out with Sam…”

“Oh I see,” Peter nods, “That makes more sense now.”

“What makes more sense?” Steve asks, offering Matt his arm to hold onto while Scott finished speaking to one of the police officers about filling out the appropriate forms.

“Uh, you know,” Peter mumbles vaguely, feeling his cheeks flush as he recalls the strange marks along Bucky’s exposed skin. “He came back late this morning with these…red scratches…all over his back and shoulders. It looked like, uh…I was confused because I thought he was with you last night, so now that I know what really happened, it makes a lot more sense…”

Peter trails off. Sam catches onto his train of thought immediately.

The Falcon whistles, an impressed grin appearing on his face just as Scott jogs over to join them. He slings an easy arm over the other man’s shoulder and wiggles his eyebrows at a confused Steve.

“What?” Cap asks suspiciously.

Scott watches the exchange with a clueless smile as he folds up the signed papers and stuffs them down Sam’s left pant pocket.

“Don’t what me, Rogers. Your boy just got laid last night.” Sam crows gleefully, dragging his friend toward the exit.

“Oh, congrats,” Scott smiles sunnily from the crook of Sam’s elbow. Matt pats Cap on the back of his hand, literally blind to the sudden change of expression on Steve’s pinched face.

Peter groans internally and follows the four men out of the police precinct.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve is secretly a little feisty turd. Tony is fed up with posting bail. Sam is too good to be true. Scott is, well, Scott is traumatized.


	5. Punisher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is about to answer when Matt suddenly surges forward with a burst of ebbing strength and smashes their faces together. For a single horrifying moment, Peter thinks he’s trying to break Frank’s nose with his forehead, then he realizes it’s a kiss.
> 
> Well, more of a bite really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've given up and fallen into the whole Fratt swamp. They are just so right for each other. And there may be HawkSilver later on, too. Just a heads up.

Pietro Maximoff has a new tattoo.

Peter sees it by accident two weeks later while hanging out with the twins at the tower and playing video games with Kurt.

It’s a small black arrow and bow design, inked separately into the skin of Pietro's ankles so that the arrow and bow would touch when he crosses his feet.

“Nice tat,” Peter says without thinking, and the white-haired boy immediately stops chatting with the blue-skinned mutant. He blinks and a faint hint of red rapidly crawls up the side of his neck. Then Peter feels a rush of air and Pietro’s outline blurs for a second, and suddenly there are striped socks covering his feet.

“What tattoo?” He crosses his arms over his chest defensively. A few feet away, Wanda rolls her eyes.

“He got it last week,” She tells them. Kurt abandons his video game in favor of looking curiously at Pietro’s sock-covered ankles with interest. Now all three of their characters have died gruesome deaths at the hands of the zombies. Only Wanda’s controller is still hovering in midair, keeping up her winning streak while she gossips freely.

“Wanda!” Pietro growls, the rest of his rushed words slipping into the rough clipped foreign syllables of his native tongue. She glares back and answers in an equally biting tone. Peter hears Clint’s name get mentioned somewhere in the conversation, and all of a sudden, the design starts to make sense.

“Hawkeye, yes?” Kurt, who’d apparently been listening avidly as well, pokes Peter in the side and asks, his tail wagging excitedly like a dog’s.

“Why would you-” Peter starts, but Pietro is rapidly turning an interesting shade of magenta. It clashes horribly with his hair. Peter tries to ask his question again, but Pietro throws the whole bucket of popcorn into his face.

"I vas going to eat zat," Kurt says, dismayed.

“You three, suit up.” A voice barks from the direction of the elevator.

Speak of the devil.

Clint Barton, clad in his dark stealth suit, steps quickly onto the landing. The wicked-looking bow in Clint’s hand gleams in the low light.

“What’s going on?” Peter asks as Wanda and Kurt scramble for their respective uniforms. He’s not part of the Young Avengers Program, but Clint tells him anyway.

“Multiple explosions along the East River. Could be the Kingpin. Daredevil said last week that he’s been plotting something big. I know you’re not part of the Initiative, Pete, but we could use all the help we can get, since the only Avenger on duty tonight is me,” He pauses and turns his serious gaze to Pietro, who’d frozen at the sight of him and has yet to move from his spot on the couch.

“You alright, kid?” Clint asks, a hint of concern coloring his voice. Pietro’s reply is a strong buffet of wind that almost throws Clint to the floor as he streaks past the archer. Clint curses under his breath and straightens with a wince. “The hell’s wrong with him?”

“You don’t want to know,” Peter says distractedly. He concentrates on reaching out to the lingering presence at the back of his mind, and a few seconds later, Venom slips through the crack in the window, bringing in a gust of cold damp rain as he envelops Peter’s body.

“Meet you there in two,” He tells Clint when Kurt pops into existence next to him and offers him a clawed hand.

 

* * *

 

The sharp scent of burning flesh and acrid smoke assault their sense when they arrive at the scene. Screams of agony and distressed cries echo from all around, and Kurt and Pietro immediately throw themselves into rescuing the civilians while Peter quickly scales a nearby burning building in search of Matt Murdock. Down below, Wanda is trying to extinguish the flames with her powers while Clint takes care of the straggling gang members still attempting to set off more explosives.

Peter finds Daredevil locked in battle with the hulking form of the Kingpin on a rooftop a few buildings away. He’s obviously outmatched, what with the two dozen or so ninja henchmen swarming around him, attempting to beat Matt into submission. Peter launches himself up into the air and descends upon the fight. He kicks an unsuspecting man in the face and webs three more together, using the momentum to propel himself forward into two more, knocking them off the side of the building. He webs them before they fall to their deaths and leaves the men to dangle there.

The door to the roof falls off its hinges and Peter whips around just in time to catch the sight of a bleached skull before the Punisher starts shooting everything in sight.

“Jesus Christ!” He ducks and feels the hot graze of a bullet that had come too close for comfort. Behind them, Kingpin roars in pain and Peter hears the crunch of bone and a wet cough that sounds suspiciously like Matt.

“Red!” Frank yells, worry tightly laced in his voice.

Daredevil collapses to his knees, his left hand bent at a hideous angle. He’s struggling to breath past the blood running down his nose and chin. Peter rushes forward and catches Matt in his arms before he can face-plant onto the cold wet cement.

“‘m fine,” He rasps and tries to get to his feet again, but the Kingpin had abandoned his men and retreated from the rooftop already, and there’s nothing to protect Matt from the full force of Frank’s rage.

“You fool,” The Punisher snarls, dropping his gun and fisting the front of Daredevil’s suit. He drags Matt to his feet and shakes him. Hard. “I told you not to take him on alone!”

“I- I can’t involve…you,” Matt pants, shaking his head. Frank growls.

“Parker, what’re you still up here for? We’re-” Behind them, Pietro, Wanda and Kurt appear in a puff of blue mist. The white-haired boy stops speaking and all three turn to stare at the two men.

“You think you’re doing me a favor, acting the fucking martyr?” Frank demands furiously, ignoring the small crowd that had gathered.

“I promised I’d keep you out of this…”

“You still don't trust me, do you Red? After all this time you still think you’re too high and mighty to associate with the likes of-“ He starts angrily.

“No, Frank, you don’t understand-“ Matt’s voice is tinny in the pounding rain. Frank ignores his feeble protest and continues to yell profanities at him.

“Should we intervene?” Wanda asks worriedly.

Peter is about to answer when Matt suddenly surges forward with a burst of ebbing strength and smashes their faces together. For a single horrifying moment, Peter thinks he’s trying to break Frank’s nose with his forehead, then he realizes it’s a kiss.

Well, more of a bite really.

Frank loosens his hold and staggers back, clutching at his mouth. Matt snarls something in a low voice and swings wildly. This time, it is a punch. The fist of his unbroken arm connects solidly with the underside of Frank’s jaw and the Punisher stumbles, more out of surprise than the force behind Matt’s fist.

“What the-” Pietro starts.

Daredevil jumps off the side of the building.

“-Hell?” the young mutant finishes, eyes the size of dinner plates. Kurt, their resident cinnamon roll, looks a bit traumatized.

Frank spits on the ground and wipes at his split lip with a wince. He picks up his gun, and before Peter can stop him, puts a dozen bullets into the heads of the nearest unconscious members of Kingpin’s gang. He’s soaking wet and blind with rage. Peter really thinks the four of them should get the hell outta there before Frank decides to shoot them next.

“You, boy,” The Punisher says roughly, his face thrown into the dark shadows. There’s still blood running down his rough-shaven chin. Apparently, Matt had sunk his teeth in real good.

Peter starts.

He doesn’t expect Frank to toss him a key on a chain.

“Go feed my fucking dog,” He growls and turns to go.

“Wait, what?” Peter sputters. The door to the roof slams shut. They are left with the various corpses and unconscious bodies strewn across the rooftop. He stares at the key chain in his hand, at a loss for words.

“I don’t know where you live, man,” Peter whispers weakly into the empty night.

There is a long moment of silence, heavy and truly depressing.

Then Wanda sighs and rolls her eyes skyward. 

“ _Men_." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to write the Fratt arc a bit, then Wade and Petey will have a bit of their own drabble. Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about Stucky.


	6. Daredevil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The four of them collectively flinch awake when the door bangs open sometime around four in the morning, a sopping wet Frank Castle staggering inside with a limp form cradled against his chest. He smells strongly of burnt flesh and gasoline. 
> 
> “You’re not as stupid as I thought, kid,” Frank growls and kicks the door shut behind him.

It takes Peter a full hour of trudging in the rain, five phone calls, and a load of increasingly frustrating text message exchanges with Ultron and Jarvis for him to realize that Frank’s dog is actually staying with Matt at the moment. Peter doesn’t really want to think about the implications of Frank having the key to Matt’s apartment, especially in light of the savage kiss on the rooftop.

Three seconds later, the four of them pop into existence outside of Matt Murdock’s apartment complex. Pietro lifts his left foot out of the filthy puddle of oily rainwater with a disgusted expression. Kurt mumbles an apology and Wanda ushers them quickly into the lobby.

It’s a small rundown building with ugly green walls and a lingering smell of old carpet and cat litter. The elevator is broken, so they take the stairs up to the sixth floor. Matt’s door is the one at the end of the hall. Peter takes a deep breath and slides Frank’s key into the lock. It turns smoothly and the door opens.

A dark shadow pounces on Peter the moment he steps inside, and a wet tongue laps enthusiastically at his face as Frank’s dog showers him with frantic kisses. Napoleon doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest that Peter is soaking wet and creating a small puddle of rainwater on the cheap carpet.

Wanda flicks on the light and the two boys file inside and shut the door behind them. The living room, although sparsely decorated, has a huge floor to ceiling window with the red neon signs of the neighboring restaurant flashing upon the opposite wall. It paints the dark apartment an alarming shade of blood red. Peter hurriedly draws the curtains shut and leads Napoleon over to the kitchen. He fishes around in the cabinets while Wanda attempts to dry the boys off with her powers. He looks up just in time to see Kurt’s soft sleek hair poof up into an impressive afro. Pietro hides his snort of laughter behind his hand but backs away quickly when his sister turns her attention to him. Peter fills Napoleon’s food and water bowl before dropping down to sit next to the happy pitbull puppy as it inhales the kibbles.

“Vhat should ve do?” Kurt asks, still trying to flatten his hair.

Peter sighs. “Don’t know. I think I should stay a while, just to make sure that Matt gets back safely. He’s got a broken wrist.”

“We’ll keep you company,” Wanda tells him in a firm voice that brook no argument.

They end up on the couch, mostly dry and perhaps a bit crispy around the edges, the puppy stretched happily across their lap. Peter nods off against Wanda’s shoulder, her soft fragrant hair tickling his nose occasionally when she shifts.

The four of them collectively flinch awake when the door bangs open sometime around four in the morning, a sopping wet Frank Castle staggering inside with a limp form cradled against his chest. He smells strongly of burnt flesh and gasoline.

“You’re not as stupid as I thought, kid,” Frank growls and kicks the door shut behind him.

 

* * *

 

He deposits Matt in the empty bathtub and turns on the hot water. The water starts turning a nauseatingly red color as it slowly fills the tub.

Daredevil snaps awake and Frank barely dodges the punch aimed at his esophagus. He crushes the struggling man to his chest and instructs Matt to breathe, his biceps bulging with the effort of holding him down. After a tense moment, Matt slumps forward, his wet face tucked into the crook of Frank’s neck. His fingers scrabble blindly at Frank’s face, attempting to map his features just to make sure it is him.

“Good boy,” The Punisher says, awkwardly passing his hand through Matt’s hair like he’s a particularly vicious dog that had finally calmed down. Then, from out of nowhere, Frank pulls out a sharp blade and starts cutting Matt out of his suit.

Peter tries discreetly to inch away from the doorway of the bathroom. The moment seems oddly private, what with Matt clinging to Frank’s broad shoulders like a drowned man, and the Punisher hunched protectively over his shivering body.

“You,” Frank spares him a short glance. Peter catches a passing glimpse of Matt’s heavily scarred shoulder as he flings the ruined uniform aside. “Grab me a needle and some dental floss. Whiskey if you can find any.”

“Wouldn’t rubbing alcohol be better?” Peter can’t help but ask. Kurt is eyeing the whole thing with increasing trepidation while Pietro keeps the overeager puppy distracted in the other room.

“Whiskey is to warm him up,” Wanda surprises Peter when she reappears at his elbow, the items Frank had asked for cradled to her chest. Frank eyes her wearily when she walks into the bathroom and settles down next to him without an ounce of fear. “My brother once fell into a freezing lake when he was seven. Anka gave him fire whiskey to stave off the hypothermia.”

Frank grunts in affirmation and accepts the first-aid kit Wanda had found. He takes a large swig from the bottle and pries Matt’s colorless lips open. Peter looks away at the sound of Matt’s muffled groan. He tries to chase Frank’s mouth when the man pulls away for another mouthful of whiskey.

“We’ll treat the stab wound in his side first, then the broken arm,” Frank tells Wanda, ignoring Matt’s weak attempt to draw him back into a kiss. Wanda nods and accepts the lighter Frank tosses her. “Sterilize the needle.”

“I can help viz zat,” Kurt says, moving forward.

Peter shakes himself out of his stupor and hurries over to help. Between the four of them, Matt’s broken arm is quickly set into a temporary sling and the gaping cut in his side sewn shut and bandaged.

Frank pulls him out of the bathtub and carries the half-conscious man into his bedroom, depositing Matt onto his bed. Matt clings to his neck and stubbornly refuses to let go when Frank tries to straighten up. The Punisher hisses impatiently and pries him lose with rough fingers. Then, under their cautious gaze, he crosses over to the closet, pulls out a suspiciously bulging black duffle bag and shoulders his way past the youngsters.

“Where are you going?” Peter calls after him. 

“I’ve got some scumbags to hunt down before sun-up,” Frank snarls without looking back. The front door bangs shut.

There is a rather dramatic pause before Pietro sighs to the happy pitbull in his arms, “Guess we’ll be bunking with you tonight, buddy. You and Wanda can have a slumber party and braid each other’s leg hairs.”

Napoleon licks him enthusiastically over the nose.

Wanda flicks his ear in retaliation.


	7. Punisher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fancy seeing you here.” 
> 
> Frank pauses, turning his head minutely to stare at the figure reflected on the filthy shopwindow glass. Wade Wilson steps out of the dark store entrance and into the light. He’s dressed in a black hoodie, scarred skin hidden in the shadow of his hood. 
> 
> “How’d you find me?” Frank growls, impatience rising. 
> 
> “I followed the scent of self-loathing and burnt flesh,” Deadpool smirks, a quick flash of sharp white teeth as he bounds forward and wraps a gloved hand around one of the straps on Frank’s bag of guns. “Need a hand with that, Castle?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist! Just had to finish this chapter. This might put a little end to the Fratt arc for now, they will pop out on and off. The Punisher is actually one of my favorite Marvel characters, so he's going to have lots of cameos. The next arc might be about Stucky, with Spideypool scattered in between. 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy!

“Fancy seeing you here, Sunshine.”

Frank pauses, turning his head minutely to stare at the figure reflected on the filthy shopwindow glass. Wade Wilson steps out of the dark store entrance and into the light. He’s dressed in a black hoodie, scarred skin hidden in the shadow of his hood.

“How’d you find me?” Frank growls, impatience rising.

“I followed the scent of self-loathing and burnt flesh,” Deadpool smirks, a quick flash of sharp white teeth as he bounds forward and wraps a gloved hand around one of the straps on Frank’s bag of guns. “Need a hand with that, Castle?”

Frank reacts without thinking, and a second later, Wade snatches his broken wrist back with a hiss, scowling as he mutters, “vicious son of a bitch.”

“If you’re looking for your boy, he’s upstairs with Red,” Frank grunts and makes his way to the old beat-up car parked in the alley behind Murdock’s apartment. He doesn’t hear footsteps follow.

“Hey, asshole.” Wade's voice again.

Frank closes his eyes and silently counts to three. “What?”

“Think you’ll need these, Frankie,” the disfigured ex-merc lifts a hand and jingles a set of very familiar keys, flashing that irritating grin again. Frank pats his empty left pocket. He lifts his head to glare at the other man.

“I call shotgun,” Deadpool sings.

 

* * *

 

“You know, I think we should stop for breakfast after,” Wilson says, fiddling with the radio.

 _MOVE BITCH GET OUT OF THE WAY_  
_GET OUT THE WAY BITCH GET OUT THE WAY_

The music screeches to an abrupt stop when Frank slams his fist down on the dash. The jarring impact lifts a cloud of dirt and cigarette ash into the air like a mini explosion. Wade coughs daintily and makes a face at the scowling Punisher.

“Seriously, I mean pancakes are always the best after a night of killing,” Deadpool continues, relentless. He is indecently cheerful at 3 AM in the morning.

“Shut up, or I’ll rip out your throat and shove it up your ass,” Frank says eloquently, fingers clamped knuckle-white against the steering wheel. They make a sharp turn onto another dark empty street.

“Kinky,” Wade whistles, low and impressed. “Does Murdock know you’re so-”

 

* * *

 

“That hurt. I can’t believe you’d actually do it.”

“Zip it.” Frank secures two Glocks at his hip and grabs a shotgun. Wade peers into the bag of weapons but doesn’t grab anything. He shrugs when Frank eyes him dubiously.

“I prefer my own custom-made babies,” Deadpool says, pulls out two sleek silver-barreled guns and doing something nasty with the end of one that has Frank glancing away with disgust.

“You gonna stop me from killing them?” He asks after slamming the lid of the trunk shut.

“What? Do you want me to?” Wade gives him an odd look, “If it's too much for your delicate senses, I can hold your hand through it, or you can wait in the car.”

Frank almost curses out loud. The words had slipped out, a force of habit really, working so long with Red that he’d forgotten who he was dealing with here.

“Fisk is mine,” He growls, “Do whatever you want with the rest.”

“Oh, this is gonna be so much fun,” The ex-merc replies, eyes alight with manic glee.

 

* * *

 

Peter sits on the couch in Matt’s living room in silence. His eyes are closed, but he’s not asleep. The events tonight has him too much on edge to fully lose consciousness. He'd texted Wade a few hours ago, even called when his boyfriend didn't immediately reply, but it had gone straight to voice message. Wanda and Kurt had wasted no time getting comfortable on the pull-out couch across the room and are now curled around each other, Frank’s dog wedged contentedly in the middle of the puppy pile.

Pietro had opted to share Peter’s couch, but the silver haired boy had gotten up a few seconds ago when his phone vibrated in the silence of the apartment. Peter keeps his eyes closed and his breathing even when Pietro slips into the hallway to answer the call.

“Hey old man,” His tone is quiet and affectionate, something Peter’s never heard before. A warbled reply sounds from the other end and the young mutant huffs out a short laugh.

“I’m fine, you didn’t have to worry, no one’s hurt. Well, no one except Murdock,” Pietro says, “The whole gang’s here, parked in his apartment for the night. Peter thought we should stay just to make sure he’s not going to die in his sleep or something.”

Peter almost gasps in surprise because Pietro has never called him by his first name before. It’s always Parker or Stark Junior or Bug Boy.

“Yeah, I know.” A pause, more words exchanged from the other side. Then Pietro says, “I’m sorry I ran off without telling you. Won’t happen again, promise.”

Another pause, then a quiet chuckle. “You gonna be able to sleep without me in the house, old man?”

Challenging with a flirtatious hint of mischief.

Peter feels his ears heat up and tries to block out the soft intimate conversation. He’s pretty sure it’s Clint on the other end of the line, but the idea that Pietro, who’s a few months younger than him, could be attracted to the guy Peter has seen as a quirky uncle for most of his life is somewhat mind-blowing. It also makes a lot more sense to him now why the young mutant had chosen that particular tattoo design. He wonders if Clint knows about it and decides that the archer probably doesn’t, judging by Pietro’s reaction to him walking in last night. He hurriedly goes back to pretending to sleep when Pietro ends the call, and a few seconds later, the couch dips slightly as the young mutant settles back down. Peter exhales quietly and tries not to think about what he’d just overheard.

 

* * *

 

“I feel dirty.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re covered from head to toe in dried blood, moron.”

“No, no, no, this is coming from inside here,” Wade smacks himself on the chest. Frank refrains from rolling his eyes and strips off his tattered t-shirt in exchange for a fresh one in the duffle bag he always keeps in the back of the car. He tosses the ex-merc an extra shirt and straightens up to peer at the sky. There’s a hint of light, meaning dawn is not far off, but he’s probably still got a solid hour before the citizens of New York City begin to stir.

“It feels like cheating,” Wade goes on, stroking his heavily scarred chin contemplatively as Frank shoulders his bag and locks the car. “Like we had a scandalous affair behind Peter’s back.”

Frank ignores the chatter and hoists himself onto the fire escape at the back of Murdock’s building.

“What, no exchanging of phone numbers?” Deadpool calls up at him.

Frank grunts, fighting off the smirk threatening to break over his face, “Nah, this is a one-night stand and you’re not that good.”

“Fuck you too, asshole!” Wade hollers good-naturedly.

Frank flips him off and slips through Red’s bedroom window. The apartment is quiet, and Murdock's back is to him, curled up on his side like a wounded bird. There's a sliver of smooth pale skin showing at the nape of his neck. It's thin and delicate like the rest of him, and this is not the first time Frank has contemplated reaching out and wrapping his thick fingers around the column of Matt's neck and-

Snap.

It would be so simple. Yet-

The man stirs, perhaps pulled from his dreams by Frank's presence alone. He's never been able to sneak up on Red before. The quilt slips and Frank sucks in a sharp breath at the sight of his old bomber jacket wrapped around Murdock’s shoulders, his dark copper hair spilling over the collar, and it’s like Frank is the football jock who’d walked in on his cheerleader girlfriend wearing his letterman jacket or something. Except if Red were a girl, he’d be the kind Frank admires only in passing, the kind of girl way out of his league, the kind who puts on cherry-flavored chapstick and wears short shorts. Good Lord, Wade Wilson’s toxic tastes in music has already affected him.

“Frank?” The rumpled head of hair shifts and Matt turns to squint at him through the dim light filtering in from the open window.

“Yeah,” He grunts and drops the duffle, somewhat surprises their dog hadn’t come running at the slightest noise. His dog, not theirs.

Frank hesitates, not sure what he should do. Matt groans a little as he pulls himself into an upright position, one hand cradling his bandaged torso. He cocks his head to the side and frowns, “You smell like fresh blood. Are you hurt?”

“No,” His first instinct is to deny everything, but those blank disapproving eyes are gouging into his exposed flesh like meathooks, so Frank walks over and grabs Red’s good hand, presses it to the base of his neck and lets the man’s fingers feel his strong pulse. “See? Very much alive.”

Frank doesn’t expect Matt to pull him down and press his ear to his solid chest. “You’re lying about something, Frank,” He murmurs, “I can tell from your heartbeat.”

“You’re bluffing, Red.”

“No,” Matt's lips lift in a secretive little smile as his arm settles around Frank’s neck, pulling the taller man down to sit on the edge of the bed, “I can always tell with you. Your heart tells me everything.”

“Yeah?” He settles with his back against the wall, Matt almost entirely in his lap.

“Yeah,” comes the soft smug reply. Then after a pause, the man adds, “actually, your partner in crime, Peter’s crazy boyfriend, I can hear him singing Baby Got Back outside in the alley.”

Frank snorts, "I knew it." 

He drops his chin over the other man’s head, the familiar scent of Matt's ridiculously expensive shampoo filling his senses. He can’t pinpoint the exact moment when climbing up the fire escape to Red’s apartment had started to feel like coming home, but as he looks around the man’s bedroom, he sees small signs indicating cohabitation: a pair of his black army fatigues peeking out from the clothes hamper, the two sets of toothbrushes in the bathroom, the irritating smell of Matt’s flowery body wash on his skin, their (goddamnit) dog.

“You could’ve told me, Red,” Frank finally rumbles, thumb drawing light circles over a fading bruise on Matt’s shoulder. “Instead of trying to bite my face off like a rabid chihuahua.”

“Yeah? What would you have done if I did?” Matt lifts his head from Frank’s chest and asks curiously, “if I'd sat you down to a candlelit dinner?”

Frank thinks about it for a second before admitting, “I probably would’ve punched you in the face.”

“Way to make a girl swoon, Frank,” Matt’s voice is dripping with sarcasm, but Frank’s lips twitch a little and he shakes his head with a soft huff of amusement.

“What the hell are we doing?” He wonders aloud.

“I don’t know,” Matt admits, settling his full weight against Frank’s chest and fighting off a jaw-cracking yawn, “but I don’t want it to stop.”

His breath eventually evens out. The sun has fully risen outside the apartment and Frank can hear the sound of people arguing in hushed voices outside of Matt’s bedroom, the occasional bark and Max’s excited pawing (he refuses to call his dog Napoleon) against the door, but for the moment, Frank is content to hold his heart in his arms and rest easy knowing that he’s kept the evil at bay for one more day.

“Should’ve shot me when I gave you the chance, Red,” He murmurs into Matt’s soft hair and lets his eyes slip shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's going to be more Frank + Wade collaborations. I think they would be super fun to write in detail.


	8. Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “For fuck’s sakes,” Sam starts, dodging out of the way when Scott tries to cover his mouth, “he’s asking you out on a freakin’ date, Barnes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could've dragged this out and made it so mysterious, but I decided to keep it simple. lol. Enjoy and drop me a comment or kudos! 
> 
> Cheers, guys!

"Umm, Sam?"

"Yeah, Tic-Tac?"

"Why are we tailing James?"

"Fuck if I kno-"

"Shhhh!!!!" Steve reaches behind him and swats at them blindly, his eyes trained unwaveringly on the door of the gym where Barnes had walked into roughly an hour ago.

Sam pulls Scott out of Cap's reach while the single father chews on his lower lip with a worried expression on his face. "Is he in trouble? Are there hostiles making an attempt on his life?"

“Honestly-” Sam begins, rolling his eyes, but Steve chooses that moment to dig his elbow hard into Sam’s ribs, dragging his attention reluctantly away from Scott. “What now?”

“He just came out.”

“ _I wish you would_.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Sam peers over Steve’s shoulder to see Barnes, hair dripping from what looks like a recent shower, striding out of the building with two other people. The former assassin claps the dark-skinned man on the arm and leans over to brush a smiling kiss to the woman’s left hand.

“Sam, who is she?” Steve tugs urgently on Sam’s sleeve, his voice practically dripping with jealousy.

The Falcon rolls his eyes behind his aviators, “dude, just cause I’m black does not mean that I know every black person in New York City.”

Steve cringes back, “I’m really sorry, I- I didn’t mean it like that, I-”

“I’m just messing with you, man. But seriously, I have no idea who that is,” Sam grins and whispers back, ignoring Scott when the man shoots him the 'disapproving father' look.

“He's heading right for us,” Scott says, an edge of panic tainting his mellow voice.

“Quickly, in here!” Steve, for all his experience in espionage, chooses the tiny door a few feet behind them, which happens to be an abandoned janitorial space in the alleyway behind a Wendy’s restaurant. Sam doesn’t get a good look inside, because Steve shoves him and Scott in first before slamming the door shut after himself.

“Ok, this is not how I wanted to spend my Saturday morning,” Sam says flatly into the dark silence, trying so very hard to ignore the feeling of Scott’s eyelashes brushing against his cheek and the gentle warmth radiating off of the man.

“Shhhh!” Steve hisses.

They stand in the tiny dark enclosure for another few torturous seconds, then there’s a sudden agonizing screech from the flimsy door, the sound of metal on metal and bright sunlight streams inside, a hulking silhouette bracketed in the doorway. Scott jumps, his knee missing Sam's unprotected crotch by millimeters, and muffles his startled yelp in the Falcon’s shoulder.

“Steve?” Barnes’ soft confused voice asks. He hauls Steve out of the little cupboard-like space by the left bicep, eyes darting between Sam, Scott, and Steve’s sheepish faces. Then, to their collective horror, his face darkens in anger. “You’re following me now, Rogers? What, you still suspect that I’m up to no good?”

“No, that’s not—” Steve blanches, racing to explain, but Barnes had turned and shouldered his pack.

“I’m going back home,” he mutters.

“Bucky, it’s not what it looks like, I was worried!” Steve blurts out, grabbing the Winter Soldier by the wrist, “we were all worried about you. That’s why we followed you.”

Sam is about to open his mouth to decline that particular group invite, but Scott’s foot landing atop his toes has him keeping his mouth shut. For the moment, at least.

“What do you mean you were worried?” Barnes pauses, twisting around to frown at them. “Why would you be?”

Steve channels the full force of those baby blues eyes on the ex-Russian assassin, “Well, Peter said you were coming back wounded all the time, and I thought you might have run into trouble…”

“Wait, so Stark didn’t tell you about my new sparring partners?” It’s Barnes’ turn to ask, “I met them a couple of days ago at a fundraiser Stark held for his company.”

“Hold on, he took you to a fundraiser? What sparring partners?”

“Can we please do this somewhere else, guys?” Scott interrupts the conversation after a Wendy’s employee freezes at the sight of them in the back alley, the giant bag of trash still clutched in her hands.

“Right,” Steve coughs, “let’s head back to the tower.”

 

* * *

 

“So he’s a prince?” Steve asks, incredulous.

“Yeah, the Kingdom of Wakanda,” Barnes says casually, pulling off his gym shirt and tossing it onto Steve’s sofa. Sam spots the claw-like marks Peter had mentioned a couple of days ago scattered across the thick muscle of Barnes’ back and upper torso.

“The metal that made your shield came from their country,” He walks into Steve’s room and and nabs a freshly laundered shirt from the man’s closet.

“And he dresses up in a cat-suit when he fights you?” Captain America purses his lips like someone's disapproving maiden aunt.

“Sometimes,” Barnes laughs low in his throat, shaking his shower-damp hair out of the bun and replies, “trust me, it’s not as sexy as it sounds, Steve.”

“Well, at least you’re not sleeping with him like we previously thought,” Sam says bluntly, grabbing a cup from Steve’s kitchen cupboard and heading over to the coffee machine. He punches Barnes on the arm playfully.

“What?” Barnes stares at him before bursting out into laughter, “Of course I’m not sleeping with T’challa.”

“Y’all are on a first-name basis, huh?” Sam grins, taking a sip of his freshly brewed coffee and wandering back to sit next to Scott on the couch, “look man, Peter’s description didn’t exactly help.”

Barnes is still chuckling when he continues thoughtfully, “Not that he’s not good-looking, but—”

“Bucky,” Steve interrupts before he can finish the sentence, his voice tight with tension, “would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”

“Dinner? Sure,” Barnes says, “Chinese takeout, your place or mine? Although, fair warning, if you choose my place they might not deliver.”

“No, not takeout,” Steve says, sounding frustrated, “I mean me taking you out to dinner, you know, some place nice.”

Barnes pauses in the middle of tugging on his left boot and looks up at Steve, who bites his lip and tries to smile. “You mean like before? When we took the girls out for a night of dancing?”

Steve winces, “uh, not exactly. Just you and me.”

“Oh, you need a, what do they call it nowadays, Barton told me the other day, a 'wing-man' is it? Sure thing, Stevie, I can work some of my old charm if you see someone you like,” Barnes’ smile crinkles the corners of his eyes. He shoulders past Steve to grab an apple out of the fridge, wiping the fruit over the front of his shirt.

“I swear it’s like they’re talking in different languages,” Sam tells a wide-eyed Scott from where they’re seated on the couch watching things unfold, “I seriously can’t take another minute of this.”

Alarm registered in Scott’s face, “Sam, I really don’t think we should intervene-”

“For fuck’s sakes,” Sam starts, dodging out of the way when Scott tries to cover his mouth, “he’s asking you out on a freakin’ date, Barnes.”

Ringing silence.

Barnes’ apple is frozen halfway to his mouth, his rough-shaven jaw going slack with shock. Steve has suddenly turned an interesting shade of mint green.

“Umm, yeah, so Sam and I need to pick up Cassie from school…” Scott blurts out randomly, grabs Sam firmly by the arm and starts the laborious process of manhandling a scowling Falcon out of Captain America’s living room.

“I’m not done speaking, Scott. Either fuck each other for real or move on, cause this is getting ridiculous, I swear to God-”

“Sam, you’ve said enough already!” Scott hisses furiously, punching hysterically at the buttons in the elevator.

The thick metal doors finally slide shut on the two motionless men still standing on Steve’s floor. Scott sags against the side of the elevator.

“It’s Saturday, Cassie’s not in school,” Sam turns on him, tone accusing.

“Seriously? That’s the part you choose to focus on?!” Scott throws his hands up into the air. “Why did you do that back there, Sam?”

“They clearly feel weird mushy things for each other, so why are they dancing around each other like cowards?” He snaps, annoyed at the tranquil elevator music in the background.

Scott bites his lip, his hazel eyes brimming with frustration and something else Sam can’t exactly put his finger on, “because not everyone is as brave about their feelings, ok? That’s why. You have to give them time to sort things out.”

Feeling a bit guilty for upsetting Scott, Sam glances away and mutters, “yeah well, if it were me, I wouldn’t dance around with words.”

“Not everyone is like you, Sam,” Scott sighs again, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He seems to have gotten lost in his thoughts by the time the elevator reaches the front lobby so Sam puts a hand to the small of Scott’s back, ushering him out of the lift without protest, past the pretty receptionist at the front desk and out into the bustling streets of Manhattan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied, next chapter may be about Scott and Sam. Drabbles jump back and forth, so no guarantees. 
> 
> Also, I'm going to go back to updating the time-travel fix-it fic where Tony and Bucky take on the world and maybe finish the Gramander one as well, so if you're invested in those two, stay tuned!


	9. Clint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wow,” Clint pulls the little bastard over to him in a tight hug, making sure to squeeze Pietro hard enough to hurt, and grits out between clenched teeth, “you make me so glad I never had any kids of my own.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tiny bit of onesided Hawksilver! Clint is pretty oblivious. And yes, Pietro is over 18. 
> 
> Enjoy and pop me a comment!

“Hey Tweety, heads up,” Natasha smacks Clint on the back of the head when she breezes past in a pair of tiny black shorts and an old gym shirt he’s 99% sure she'd stolen from his closet.

“Quit it, Nat,” He says half-heartedly from where he’s nestled between Thor and Wanda, watching a cheesy horror flick. The Avengers had banned sappy romances like The Notebook, because Thor had photographic memory and liked to belt out an occasional movie line during the heat of battle.

She drops down on Thor’s armrest and cards a fine-toothed comb through his hair, picking out a few strands for the start of a braid. Thor does not seem particularly bothered as he grabs another handful of popcorn off Clint’s lap and stuffs it into his mouth, eyes glued to the TV. Clint is trying to focus his attention back on the movie when Natasha opens her mouth again.

“So, Pietro got a new tattoo.” She says innocently.

He sighs and reluctantly turns away from the screen. “What?”

“He did not tell you?” Wanda raises one delicate brow at him. Clint shrugs, feeling a little defensive. He’s not the kid’s real dad, there’s no reason-

_Fuck._

He last for roughly ten second before he drops the popcorn bowl in Thor’s lap and stands. Natasha shoots him a smug smirk when Clint rounds the couch to tug on a strand of her red hair in retaliation. He blinks at the ungodly sight of Thor with the hair on the left side of his head done up in a pretty french braid.

“Nat, you need help. Like therapy, lots of it.” He shoots the Asgardian a sympathetic look before dodging the high kick Natasha aims at his face.

Pietro is in the middle of a loud video game session with Peter and one of the X-men kids, the one who can manipulate ice, when he knocks on the open door to get the kids' attention.

“What up, old man. Don’t tell me you’re here to tuck me in.” Pietro’s pale blue eyes light up challengingly when he spots Clint leaning in his doorway. Peter waves absently, his eyes glued intently on the flashing screen where the three of them are in the middle of some futuristic-looking battlefield.

“Yeah, it's way past your curfew.” Clint returns drily, faking a brief glance down at his bare wrist. “So Nat just told me you got a tattoo. When did that happen?”

He doesn’t expect Pietro to flush the color of tomato soup and his character to immediately die on screen.

“Hey, what the hell, Maximoff?” The ice kid says, annoyed when Pietro turns the game off and rushes his friends out the door, the tips of his ears red as he avoids Clint’s eyes. Peter looks like he wants to say something to Clint on his way past, but a solid kick to the shin from Quicksilver gets him going. Clint raises a brow when Pietro returns, a slightly guilty look on his face.

“I was going to tell you.” He confesses, sounding a kid being scolded by an angry parent. Clint sighs.

“Kid, I’m not your father. I don’t need you to tell me everything. I just don’t want you making weird and stupid mistakes like I did when I was your ag-WHOA, WHY ARE YOU TAKING YOUR CLOTHES OFF??”

Clint gapes when the silver-haired kid tosses his sweatshirt off to the side before turning to him with that familiar and irritating mischief in his face, “cause its hot in here, why else?”

“You’re a little turd, you know that?” Clint grounds out, pinching the bridge of his nose. He takes a seat on the edge of Pietro’s bed, “I see you’re making new friends with the X-kids.”

“Bobby? Yeah, he’s alright,” Pietro replies, looking a bit sheepish. He coughs and turns to Clint eagerly, “so, about those stupid mistakes you made when you were young…”

Clint laughs. “Nope, not gonna give you more material to make fun of me with, kiddo, nice try.”

There’s a moment’s pause before Pietro twists a little and lifts up the left leg of his jeans. It takes Clint’s distracted brain a few seconds before the image registers and his heart kicks into overdrive, heat blossoming across his face.

“Is that...?” Clint asks quietly, his fingers itching to reach out and trace over the familiar arch of the bow.

“Yeah,” The kid’s ears are flushed red with embarrassment, but his voice does not waver when he admits, “for your information, I was not drunk or high when I got it.”

“Does it stand for what I think it stands for?” Clint presses, searching Pietro’s face for any signs of something he can’t quite put his finger on.

“Do I really have to spell it out for you, old man?” The silver-haired mutant rolls his eyes skyward, "how many people still use a bow and arrow when they fight these days?”

“Hey, the bow and arrow combo is a classic. Think Robin Hood. Think badass elves like Legolas and Disney princes.” Clint shoots back distractedly, still staring at the images imprinted on the skin of Pietro’s ankles.

“You really are _ancient,_ ” Pietro laughs, his voice tight.

“Gonna tell me the story behind it?” He asks, trying for an encouraging smile. The kid relaxes a little and takes a seat next to Clint, crossing his ankles so that the two images touched. Clint’s heart flutters fondly in his chest.

“It grounds me,” Pietro says finally, a rare thoughtful expression on his face, “like you.”

“Yeah?” Clint smiles and elbows him teasingly, “go on, stroke my ego some more.”

Pietro side-eyes him critically and says in a serious voice, “I don’t think your heart can take that much stroking, what with your advanced age and all.”

“Wow,” Clint pulls the little bastard over to him in a tight hug, making sure to squeeze Pietro hard enough to hurt, and grits out between clenched teeth, “you make me so glad I never had any kids of my own.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I lied again about the SamxScott. I had this one half-written already so I thought I'd just finish it and post it. I heard from a friend that apparently getting tattoos on your ankle hurt a lot?
> 
> Next one will be those two. :)


	10. Peter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hey Al, did cha miss me?” Wade kicks open the door and shouts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi gang, I'm back for a small update from a burst of inspiration I got from reading all of your lovely comments you've been leaving me for this series.
> 
> These three snippets are happening at the same time. Think mid-morning.

"Hey Al, did cha miss me?” Wade kicks open the door and shouts, ignoring Peter’s wince as the window pane rattles with the impact.

An old woman shuffles out of the back room, a cup of hot tea clutched in one hand. “Wade, is that you? I thought you died.”

Wade kicks his shoes off and wriggles his toes into the thick brown carpet. He beckons Peter inside and elbows the door shut with another rattling bang.

“I stop paying rent for what, three months? And this what I get?” He rolls his eyes and makes a rude gesture at her.

“We even erected a small headstone in the front yard for you,” Al says, unfazed as she moves back into the kitchen. “Did you see it?”

“Did I see it? Of course I fucking saw it,” Wade shouts, following her into the kitchen like a small angry child. Peter can’t help the smile on his face, because Wade’s entire frame seems to relax in the old woman’s presence.

“It looks like a lumpy shriveled dick, Al. That’s what it looks like. At least do me the courtesy of making it a proper erection, jeez.” Wade mutters, “What did you do with our love children?”

“Children?” Al cocks her head to the side.

“You know, Marijuana and Crack.” Wade says impatiently. Blind Al blows on her hot tea and takes a cautious sip.

“I sold them to pay for the rent you didn’t have,” She tells him calmly.

“WHAT?!” Wade screeches, making the old woman wince at the pitch of his voice.

“You make me wish you were really dead. Tea?” Al reaches out and feels around for the sugar bowl on the table. Peter nudges it toward her fingers. “Who’s the kid, Wade?”

Peter clears his throat, gingerly sets down the fresh flowers he’d picked from their back garden on the kitchen table and drops down into the seat next to her, “I’m Peter Parker, ma’am. I’m Wade’s…” He pauses, trying to come up with a word that would cause the least amount of shock to the old lady, “...friend.”

“Friend?” Al snorts dismissively, rising and fetching another clean teacup for Peter. He takes it with a small word of thanks. She shakes her head and exhales, “No, you’re not a just a friend. Weasel’s a friend, the little whimpy guy Wade always bullies into doing bad things is his friend, that cheap two-dollar hooker down the street is his friend. You, no, you’re something special.”

Peter feels his cheeks heat up at her blunt words. Wade’s watching their exchange with bright brown eyes, a fierce sort of affection written across his scarred face. Peter’s heart does a little fluttering leap to his throat.

Al makes a disgusted noise in the back of her throat and rises from her seat. “You two need a room?” She places her empty mug in the sink. “Are y’all staying for lunch?”

Peter perks up at this, and ignoring Wade's loud groan of dismay, asks eagerly, "can we?"

Al's lip twitches, an almost smile, then she clears her throat and answers, "if you help with the cooking."

 

* * *

 

“Sir.”

“Ugh…”

“ _Mr. Stark._ ”

Tony peels his face off of the ice cold steel surface of his workbench with monumental difficulty and manages to pry his left eye partially open. Barnes, who’d popped in for a routine check-up and physical, is no longer in the room.

“Jarvis? How long was I out?” He croaks, groaning at the nasty bitter tang of metal grease permeating his mouth. Had he been sucking on Barnes’ prosthetic arm? Fuck.

“Merely an hour, Sir,” JARVIS sounds like a disapproving parent, “Mr. Barnes became bored and wandered off ten minutes after you passed out. You need to have a proper rest, Mr. Stark. You’ve been awake for more than 72 hours.”

“Where’s he now, J?” Ignoring the concerned comment about his health, Tony crawls upright and gets unsteadily to his feet. He sniffs at his shirt and decides to discard it when the sour stench of sweat and oil nearly makes him gag.

“He’s…broken into your finest collection of liquor, Sir.” JARVIS’s words are a shot of pure adrenaline to his chest.

“What the hell?” Tony yells up at the red dot in the ceiling and makes his way quickly to the elevator, “Taser him or something! He’s just going to waste it all since the guy can’t even get drunk!”

Tony skids to a stop outside the destroyed door to his most prized possessions and blinks stupidly at the wide jagged hole in the metal. It looks like Barnes had physically clawed his way through to the booze.

“Jesus Christ,” Tony mutters, kicking aside an empty bottle, “what the hell, Barnes?”

Barnes is seated amongst the scattered remnants of his drinks, his rough-shaven face set in a mulish expression eerily similar to that of Steve Rogers when he’s about to go off in someone’s face about justice and freedom and shit. Tony stares with a sort of detached horror as Barnes brings the million-dollar scotch up to his mouth and chugs straight from the bottle.

“I feel nothing,” The former Soviet assassin sighs mournfully, peering down at his fingers, “not even a tingle. It’s like drinking water, Stark.”

_Yeah, water that’s thousands of dollars a drop._

“What’s with the sudden thirst for booze?” Tony rescues the half-empty bottle from Barnes' clutches, grabs a glass from the wall and pours himself a generous amount of scotch. He figures he deserves a treat for the shit he has to deal with. Peter had been hounding him to open up and to connect with people.

 _Have conversations, pop_ , his son had said sappily. Tony much rather prefers having his tonsils removed with a blunt spoon instead.

“Come on, talk to me, handsome,” After some internal battles, he reluctantly plops down on the floor next to Barnes, who suddenly looks both guarded and twitchy as hell.

“I-” Barnes starts.

“Did you accidentally get a girl pregnant?” Tony interrupts.

“No,” Barnes looks highly offended at the question, “I wouldn’t treat a lady like _that_.”

“I’ll bet,” Tony rolls his eyes skyward and takes a deep drink, “well, if it’s not the creation of human life, there isn’t anything a truckload of cash and my team of lawyers can’t fix and erase.”

“It’s not…” Barnes heaves a frustrated sigh, “it’s about…Steve.”

 

* * *

 

There’s a polite knock on the door, followed by a timid ring from the doorbell. Barnes’ dogs, half of which had settled in various spots on the living room floor, all lift their heads as one and start barking like crazy.

Lester freezes on the couch, his spoonful of cold Lucky Charms halfway lifted to his lips. His first reflex is to reach under the coffee table for the Glock 19 strapped there and empty the clip into the door. Bob, who’d wandered in carrying a new cactus pot, stops in his tracks, eyes widening at Lester who quickly stuffs the Lucky Charms into his mouth and makes a silent hand gesture for Bob to get behind him.

“Relax, it’s only the guy that wears the star-spangled tights and Loki’s moronic brother on the other side,” Ultron cuts over the audio on the flatscreen where Lester is watching Rick and Morty and says in a bored monotone.

“Couldn’t have mentioned that sooner?” He snaps back, carefully pocketing the gun and motioning Bob to go answer the door. The marksman rolls back onto the couch, grabs his cereal bowl and turns up the volume. Two of the dogs wander over to join him, their wet noses leaving dark marks on Lester’s grey pajamas. To his dismay, the larger of the two decides to jump onto his lap and settle there. Cursing softly under his breath, Lester sets his bowl atop the pitbull's back and scoops up another spoonful of soggy cereal.

“Thor wanted to come visit his sibling, and since he’s not licensed to fly within city limits anymore, I thought I’d bring him here,” Lester hears Captain America explain to Bob at the door. The marksman rolls his eyes.

“WHAT ADVENTURES SHOULD WE ATTEMPT TODAY, BROTHER MINE?” The God of Thunder shouts when Bob lets them inside the house. There’s the sound of a moist plop and Thor’s voice becomes distinctly muffled. Apparently, Loki had lobbed a wet towel at his face from the second floor.

“Is, ah, Bucky home?” Rogers asks stiffly, seemingly visibly relieved when Bob shakes his head no and offers to show them his new cactus. It's a little out of character for the Captain and Lester’s attention wanders briefly, but then Pickle Rick starts killing every rat in sight and he happily turns back to the TV.


	11. Interlude I: Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott bites his lip with a helpless little smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth, and Sam thinks at that moment, yeah, this guy’s probably right about the best friend thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the Scott/Sam interlude chapters everyone wants! There will be a couple more after this. This chapter starts off right after the Thanos battle from the first fic in this series.

Sam spends the first night after the battle with Thanos lying in a SHIELD-approved hospital bed, hooked up to various machines closely monitoring his vitals even though he told them he was fine. Scott has somehow gotten away with minimal fuss and is sitting a few feet away, playing a noisy game on his phone, socked feet propped up on the arm of an old leather couch. Sam really doesn’t get the how the world works sometimes.

“Do you need something?” Noticed his gaze, Scott pauses his game and looks up eagerly, flashing him that blindingly bright smile. It makes Sam’s headache feel worse and he glances away with a low groan, silently cursing himself when the pained noise makes Scott jump from his couch in alarm.

“I’m fine, Tic Tac, just go back to your game,” He mutters. There’s a pause before Sam adds, for the fifth time, “ you know you can just go home to your family, right? I don’t need a chaperone.”

“I know,” Scott takes a seat in the chair next to him, his hand almost close enough to touch Sam’s, “but it’s Christmas day, nobody should be alone. Beside,” He smiles, honey-brown eyes shimmering like liquid gold in the morning light, “I want to be here.”

Sam’s heart rate monitor gives a warning beep. He clears his throat, cheeks heating up under Scott’s unwavering gaze as he makes something up just to get Scott out of the room, “Whatever, man. Can you go get me some apple juice from the vending machine?”

“Sure!” He flashes Sam another blinding grin before slipping out the door. Sam lets out a breath of relief and shuts his eyes.

He doesn’t remember when he’d fallen asleep, but when he next opens his eyes, there’s a hideously disfigured fuzzy thing inches from his face. Letting out a yelp of shock and jerking away, Sam stares at the little girl who’d settled into Scott’s vacated chair. She stares back at him with wide solemn eyes, the freaky toy clutched protectively to her chest.

“Everything ok?” A petite blonde woman, closely followed by Scott and a man in uniform, slips into Sam’s room. She sighs when she sees them, “Cassie, what did I say about shoving Frankie in people’s faces when they’re sleeping?”

“To not to,” the tiny girl replies like they’d gone over this a million times before.

“Cassie, this is Sam, Sam Wilson,” Scott cuts in hurriedly before the woman can speak. He rounds the bed and comes over to crouch next to her, and this close, the resemblance is uncanny, especially when he smiles at her. “Remember? Daddy told you all about him.”

Cassie glances between them, and then, to Sam’s surprise, beckons him close with her hand. He leans forward and hears her whisper accusingly, “So you’re the one who beat up my Daddy?”

Sam lifts an eyebrow, "well, he was the one who started-" 

“Ok, why don’t you guys take her out for a second, Maggie?” Scott sounds slightly hysterical when he wheels his tiny daughter around and frog-marches her toward the woman, who Sam suspects is the ex-wife, and the man, all the while alternating between frantically whispering in Cassie’s ear and shooting Sam guilty looks behind her back.

At the door, Cassie turns around and gives Sam a long flat stare before making that two-fingered universal gesture for “I’ve got my eyes on you, punk” and slipping out with her mother. Despite his overwhelming urge to burst out laughing, Sam’s impressed.

Scott’s got a constipated look on his face when he returns and sits down gingerly at his bedside. He scratched the side of his head and asks, “So, any chance that you’ll be willing to forget that first encounter with my daughter due to that concussion, Sam?”

“You mean the concussion you gave me, Lang?” He replies and snatches the apple juice from Scott’s fingers. Sam keeps up the straight face just to see the other man squirm.

“Umm, about that, I really am sorry, man.” Scott hangs his head. 

Sam can no longer hold it in and sprays apple juice all over his sheets when he finally starts to laugh. Scott bites his lip with a helpless little smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth, and Sam thinks at that moment, _yeah, this guy’s probably right about the best friend thing._

 

* * *

 

Sam, having grown up taking care of several younger sisters, is very organized in his daily routine. He likes it that way, knowing what to do at what time and having full control over things. Scott, on the other hand, is as scatter-brained as a raccoon at an all-you-can-eat buffet (Steve had been the weirdo come up with that bizarre phrase).

The thing is, he and Scott get along _scarily well_. Too well, come to think of it. He adores Cassie and her him. Sam even likes Maggie and Paxton, who are avid Steelers fans as well. He thought he’d miss Steve’s presence, but he doesn’t, not with Scott constantly getting himself in trouble and forgetting to pick up his own daughter.

Sam still runs with Steve every morning, but occasionally, he’s able to drag Scott along, and it becomes Steve in the lead, Sam jogging comfortably at his own pace, and Scott, panting and whining behind them both. He doesn’t mind it when Steve starts asking Barnes to join them whenever he stays over at Stark Tower, because Barnes can outrun even Captain America. Sam’s impressed until he gets the sneaking suspicion that Steve’s letting him win on purpose so that he can watch Barnes’ ass from behind while he runs.

It kind of ruins the whole point of the exercise for Sam after that.


	12. Interlude II: Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He's so ugly, I love him!" Cassie squeals in delight, wrapping her arms around Wade’s startled neck.

"He's so ugly, I love him!" Cassie squeals in delight, wrapping her arms around Wade’s startled neck. Peter smiles at the dazed expression on Deadpool’s face as Cassie pulls back to peer up at him with absolute adoration.

“Told you, Sam.” Scott says.

“You and that kid of yours, man, I swear,” Sam shakes his head with a grin. Scott shrugs from where he is pouring apple juice into kid-sized cups.

“I know, right?” He smirks when he breezes past Sam, “we’re freaking awesome.”

“Hi, I’m Cassie, I’m eight.” Cassie says in the doorway, showing off her eager gap-toothed smile. Wade Wilson is staring down at her in wonder.

“Hey Cassie, I’m Wade. I’m nine,” He says.

“Peter and Daddy told me so many things about you,” Cassie tells him, carefully taking his scarred hand in her tiny smooth one. “Wanna play together?” She asks. Peter waves an encouraging hand at them when Wade turns to him with a panicked expression.

He stoops down a little so she can better lead him off to the little kids table, past the station where Captain America is engaged in a captivating tale involving multicolored finger puppet kittens. Barnes sits crosslegged among a gaggle of girls in frilly princess dresses, a sparkly silver party hat slanted over his head. Everyone is completely immersed in Steve’s story about the dangerous and exciting lives of kitten spies. There’s a little girl with a tiny french braid nestled in Barnes’ lap, her brown eyes huge as Steve tosses a finger puppet kitten up into the air, mimicking an explosion and pulling a loud gasp of horror from the audience. Barnes delicately covers the small girl's eyes when the purple finger puppet kitten sacrifices himself to save his best friend, the pink finger puppet kitten.

"Steve, dial down the angst, will you?" He finally sighs irritably and interrupts the storyteller when two of the girls burst into tears over the 'death' of the purple kitten. So Steve resurrects him in a shower of rainbows and sparkles, and ends the story on a positive note about the magic of friendship. He gets an approving nod from the Winter Soldier when the little girls all squeal happily and burst into applause.

Sam almost chokes to death from holding back his laughter.

“Who knew he was such a good story-teller,” Scott comments drily. Sam snorts loudly and accepts the plate of raw hotdogs Maggie hands him.

“Scottie, go help Sam with the grill, will you?” She nudges Scott, who reddens under both Sam and Maggie’s attention.

“Yeah, sure,” Clearing his throat, Scott grabs the rest of the beef patties and makes his way out of the kitchen and into their backyard where Cassie, Wade and Peter had settled down by her collection of nightmarish-looking stuffed animals.

“Ninja battle?” She asks, handing Deadpool a dinosaur with a cowboy hat and a samurai sword clutched in one itty-bitty claw. She gives Peter a grotesque-looking bunny.

“What, no tea parties?” Wade teases, faking indignation. She grins at him and shrugs.

“Tea parties are for little girls, but we can have one if you want.” Cassie tells him, ever the gracious host.

“Deal, after a fight to the death. If we're thirsty by then.” Wade grins and launches into the imaginary battle with great gusto.

“Cassie for president?” Sam nudges Scott.

He laughs, “believe it or not, you’re actually not the first person to suggest that.”

 

* * *

 

The birthday party is a huge success, which is odd for someone with Scott’s level of bad karma. His phone pings when Paxton is in the middle of cutting the birthday cake. Scott looks down and sees a text from Hope.

_Scott, we need to talk._

Yep, this is more like it.

 

* * *

 

When Scott tells Maggie about the phone call, she just gives him this horrible, knowing look and motions for him to sit down while she fetches them a drink. Scott picks at an old mustard stain in his jeans for a bit before realizing it’s the same look Maggie gave him that night when she’d asked for a divorce. He jumps from the couch and runs after her into the kitchen.

“You knew?”

“I knew what, sweetie?” Maggie hands him two mugs, one that still has his name on the side, and despite the betrayal, Scott’s heart warms at the sight.

“You knew she was going to break up with me!” He accuses, following her around the kitchen like an angry puppy, the two mugs still in hand.

“Well, she did come by and ask me for my advice, but I already had a hunch you two weren’t going to work from the beginning.” Maggie grabs the mugs from Scott’s limp hands.

“Why?” He really doesn’t get it, but Maggie pauses her task and turns to give him an almost pitying look.

“Oh, Scotty,” She sighs, “Women like us need stability, and you, well, you can be a bit scatter-brained and unpredictable.”

“What?” Scott glowers, “I’m plenty stable!”

“No, you need someone who’s willing to pick up after you and overlook all…this,” She gestures at his whole body. “And as much as I love you, baby, being in a relationship with you is exhausting.”

“I can’t believe I just got friend-zoned by both my ex-wife and ex-girlfriend,” Scott mutters into his mug where she’d poured a healthy amount of scotch, shoulders slumping as Maggie leads him back to the couch.

“Hope said the same thing?” She asks.

“Yeah…” Scott lays his head on her shoulder.

“You’ll find the right one eventually, Scott,” Maggie says, stroking a soft hand over his hair, “you just have to be patient.”

Their comfortable little silence is broken by the shrieking laughter coming from the birthday party out back and Sam’s indignant shout.

"You know, Sam is surprisingly good at taking care of kids,” Maggie says suddenly.

“Well yeah, he’s got a couple of younger sisters and cousins back home,” Scott explains.

“Really?”

“Uh-huh, we went by his mom’s house the other day, she makes kickass cookies, Mags. I would’ve brought you some if I didn’t finish all of them on the drive back to New York.”

“He took you home to see his parents?” Maggie is giving him that weird look again.

“Yeah, what’s the matter?”

Maggie rolls her eyes, “wow, Scott. Really not the sharpest tool in the shed, are you?”

 

* * *

 

Outside in the yard, the fierce little girl in the frilly blue dress and french braid has cornered a startled James Barnes up against a tree.

"Will you marry me once I'm older?" She demands, hands on hips and blinking expectantly up at the stunned ex-assassin. "All the other boys at school are so _immature_."

“Uh..." The Winter Soldier says, eyes wide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving, guys!


	13. T'Challa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This picks off on Bucky's arc.

Bucky is pummeling the stuffing out of the enforced punching bag when T’Challa clears his throat and announces his presence. The former Russian assassin closes his eyes briefly, knuckles throbbing with a dull aching pain that fades disappointingly quickly when he stops assaulting the bag.

“Wanna spar?” He turns and asks, keeping his voice deceptively light. T’Challa’s mouth twists down in a disapproving frown. His gaze is sharp and knowing, and Bucky feels agitation well up inside his chest, the hot shame coming back ten-fold as the memory of jumping out of Steve’s sixty-something story window resurfaces. He had almost given Clint a heart attack when his metal fingers gouged five deep lines down the bullet-prooff glass side of Stark Tower.

“You are in turmoil, Sergeant Barnes,” T’Challa's soft words feel like sandpaper against exposed flesh. He swallows past the need to shoot something, and brushes past T’Challa toward the doors. They are sparring partners, not friends.

He barely dodges the small throwing knife.

“I did not say no to the sparring,” T’Challa points out from behind him.

Clenching his fists, Bucky smiles, the dark remnants of the Winter Soldier roaring his approval in the rush of blood pounding in his ears. He flexes his metal shoulder and turns to face the prince of Wakanda, “suit up, kitty cat.”

“Not today,” T’Challa cocks his head slightly, still scrutinizing him, “today we use our fists.”

Bucky smiles for real this time. “I think I’m in love.”

 

* * *

 

“You’re distracted,” T’Challa does not even sound out of breath when he pins Bucky to the mat with both hands and a knee to his back, “it makes you sloppy.”

He snarls, struggling against the solid chokehold and feeling the enforced joint Stark had made for him groan under the stress. T’Challa releases him instantly and jumps gracefully to his feet. Bucky stands slowly, still panting. The exercise doesn’t seem to be helping much, because his mind keeps wandering back to Steve’s heartbroken face.

“What is wrong?” T’Challa asks again.

“I should go,” Bucky says, dropping his gaze, “thanks for the sparring session.”

He’s heading toward the exit again when T’Challa says, “this is about your friend the Captain, isn’t it?”

“I told you to tell your ladies to stop snooping on me, I’m not an assassin anymore, I don’t want to kill you,” Bucky heaves a long-suffering sigh and shrugs on the faded hoodie he had nicked from Steve’s place a few months ago, back when things weren’t so darn complicated.

“Unfortunately, Okoye and Ayo are still not so sure,” There is a hint of humor in T’Challa’s voice when he walks over and hands him a cold bottle of water.

“Ouch.” Bucky takes a small drink.

“Our first meeting was not the best of introductions, Sergeant Barnes. Imagine what you would think if you had walked in on your sister in a room with two men, one of which was half undressed.”

“Hey, your sister was the one who told me to strip.”

“Because she wanted to see your arm and Stark’s design.”

“Just keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better, your Highness.” He catches sight of T’Challa’s reproachful look and winces, “sorry.”

“About the Captain,” T’Challa prompts and Bucky groans.

“You do not want me to find out via my guards, Sergeant Barnes. If there is anything I can help—“

“There is nothing you can help me with, ok? Because there is nothing wrong. I’m fine, we’re fine. Steve’s just being an idiot. This thing, whatever it is, it will be back to normal in a few months, and we’ll go back to the way things were before.”

“Your plan is just to avoid him until then?”

“Yes, he’s my best friend,” Bucky says, “trust me, I know how to deal with this. It’s either this, or fight it out, and I really don’t want to go against him again. He’s not the little beanpole from before anymore. Last time we fought, be broke my arm.”

“He sounds like quite a character. Will I ever get to meet him?” T’Challa asks.

“Depends on how long you’re staying in New York.”

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, the situation is not fine.

—which is why Scott Lang comes home one night to find a dark hulking shadow sitting on his sofa, illuminated by a brightly-colored cereal commercial on the TV.

Scott totally does not scream like a girl and drop all of his fresh groceries.

“Sorry, I couldn’t find where the light switches were,” comes Barnes’ soft voice.

“Are you here to kill me?” The question sort of slips out.

“Seriously?” Barnes looks mildly hurt when Scott fumbles the lights on. “Why does everyone ask me that?”

“Umm, because you’re, frankly speaking, terrifying?” Scott offers, feeling his stomach drop with dread at the sight of the small backpack sitting innocently next to Barnes on the lumpy sofa.

“Thank you,” Barnes replies.

“You’re welcome?” Scott answers, fidgeting with the edge of his sweater. He jerks his chin at the backpack, “uh, so I'm guessing that’s not the loaf of banana bread Bob promised last week.”

“No, sorry,” Barnes cards a hand through his hair before saying, “I was hoping I could stay with you for a bit.”

“Right. This is about the—”

A thick vein throbs at Barnes’ temple and Scott swallows convulsively, his voice tapering off into the miserable silence.

“Look, Lang, I won’t be around most of the time, I just need a place to crash for nights. You won’t even know I’m here. If you need rent money, I can go bust a couple of cartels and grab some cash, but—“

“No, no, please don’t do that, James, I really don’t need rent,” He interrupts, alarmed at the sight of the gun Barnes had pulled so casually from his trusty backpack.

“You’re sure?” The former assassin narrows his eyes. “It’ll take like ten minutes tops. I swear.”

“Yeah, a-absolutely,” Scott stammers, trying to smile, “mi casa su casa…”

“Please stop, you’re butchering a beautiful language.” Barnes gives him a flat stare. Scott winces, and at a loss for words, starts to salvage the remains of his dropped groceries. The eggs are going to have to go for sure.

A metal hand appears in his line of vision. Barnes had gotten off the couch without a sound and was in the middle of putting the heads of broccoli back into the bag.

“Wow, you’re like a cat,” He laughs nervously, “gotta put a bell on you.”

Barnes does not even grace him with a reply.

Scott clears his throat, face burning, “so, uh, I don’t think you mentioned, but how did find out where I lived?”

 

* * *

 

“Wait, so he’s crashing at your place?” Sam asks, handing him a hot plate of rice and vegetables. “Is this why you begged me to make you dinner tonight?”

“Yes, it’s weird and scary, but I also kinda still want to be his friend,” Scott confesses helplessly, “I don’t know what’s going on anymore, Sam. How’s Cap doing?”

“He seems fine, but I saw him flinch today when Stark mentioned Barnes’ name,” Sam replies, grabbing eating utensils for all three of them. They had left Cassie on the couch watching cartoons while Sam cooked dinner and Scott hung around, offering little bits of help whenever Sam asked. He had a feeling Sam only asked to make him feel involved in the cooking process.

“It’s such an awkward situation,” Scott mutters distractedly, “I don’t know what to say or do. I mean, he made breakfast yesterday, but I was too nervous to eat it.”

“Yeah, I don’t know how Peter does it, living with the guy under his roof,” Sam hummed in agreement, brushing past Scott to grab bowls.

“You know, it wouldn’t be this awkward if you hadn’t opened your mouth,” Scott reminds, trailing after him into Sam’s living room. He calls out to the little girl on the couch, “Cassie, baby, time for dinner.”

“Hey, Steve’s cow eyes were driving me crazy,” Sam mutters defensively, helping Cassie onto the tall stool when she skips over to them.

“Thank you, Uncle Sam,” she chirps.

He grins at her, “you’re very welcome, little lady.”

They eat dinner while Cassie entertains them with stories from school. When Maggie comes to pick up their daughter, she gives Scott a strange look, her cheeks turning a little pink when she spots Sam washing the dishes in the the kitchen.

“So, are you staying the night?” She asks innocently, taking her sweet time bundling Cassie into her thick coat.

“What? No, Sam and I are watching that football game he DVR-ed last week, no spoilers,” he added quickly when Maggie opens her mouth.

She rolls her eyes at him and sighs. “You are an idiot. But I think he’s good for you, Scottie, I really do.”

“What do you mean?” Scott frowns.

“Nope, not getting involved, you need to figure it out yourself,” Maggie smiles and kisses him on the cheek, “night, sweetie. Say goodbye to you daddy and Uncle Sam, Cassie.”

“Bye, Uncle Sam!” Cassie yells.

Scott hears Sam laugh as he shouts back, “see you tomorrow, baby girl.”

“Bye, Daddy,” She presses a sloppy kiss to Scott’s forehead when he bends down to grin at her.

“Bye, sweetheart.”

 

* * *

 

“So, why am I here?” Sam asks, slightly out of breath from climbing up seven flights of stairs. The elevator in Scott’s building is being repaired. Again.

“Because I don’t want to talk to him alone,” Scott points out, “and I need someone to find my body and call the police when he throttles me with his bare hands?”

“You’re being a drama queen, dude,” Sam says.

“I am not.” Scott turns the key and opens his apartment door.

It is not the sight of a scowling James Barnes that greets them but the sharp end of a golden spear, held firmly in the hands of a gorgeous dark-skinned woman. Sam reacts before Scott can object, yanking him back by his hoodie and blocking the weapon with the crook of his elbow. The spear tip misses his temple by an inch and embeds itself into the doorframe.

“We surrender, please don’t kill us,” Scott blurts out, dropping his keys.

The stranger rises from the couch, “at ease, Ayo.”

The woman, Ayo, narrows her eyes and slowly drops her offensive stance.

“I am T’Challa, prince of Wakanda,” the handsome man introduces, “Sergeant Barnes’ friend. I believe we have not met before.”

There is a tense moment of silence between them, then Sam opens his mouth and says flatly, “So you’re the guy with the cat fetish." 

Scott groans.

**Author's Note:**

> Spideypool is just a fraction of the ships in this fic, so there won't be a dominating pair throughout. 
> 
> Come chat with me about your favorite ship :)


End file.
